J. M. C. Blair_Merlin Investigation_03, page 10
part #3 of Merlin Investigation Series
Merlin roused himself. “Fedora. You should not be here. Climbing all these stairs cannot be good for you.”
She smiled; most of her teeth were gone. “You climb them.”
“I live here. I have to. Besides, I have my lift. You should have ridden it.”
“Modern things.” She made a sour face and mimicked spitting.
He chuckled. “That is right. You believe in the old superstitions, do you not?”
“The babies I deliver all live.”
“Would this one have, do you think? If I had not come?”
“It died.”
“Oh.”
“When I got back with the wet nurse we found it lying quite still at its mother’s nipple.”
For a moment he sat silently, digesting this. “Well. It was such a difficult delivery . . . It was amazing that it was not stillborn. Or that we did not have to kill it to save its mother’s life.”
“The babies I deliver all live.” Her smile was gone. “Learn that lesson.”
“Superstition . . .” He let his voice trail off. For the first time in as long as he could remember, he felt inadequate. “At least we saved the mother.”
“She died, too. Not much later.”
“Oh.”
“I could have worked more charms. You wouldn’t let me.”
“Is that what you came to tell me? That scattering wolf-bane and sacrificing puppies would have saved them?”
“I am more than twenty years older than you. I know so much more. How can you have learned so little?” Suddenly, explosively, she laughed.
“What do you know, Fedora?”
“A midwife learns many secrets. We deal with birth. Next to death it is the one great fact in human affairs. I leave death to you and the king.”
“Do not bother me with this rubbish. Charms. Tying knots in strips of cloth. The human race is mired in rot like that. Hopelessly. Look at how Europe has declined. Can you do anything to stop this plague?”
Again she laughed at him. “I will go now. I am a tired old woman.”
“You are a perverse old woman. Leave me alone.”
“I tell you, Merlin, I know so many things that you don’t. Not for all your books and philosophers.” She pointed at the scroll in his hand.
“Of course. Get out of here, will you? Take the lift down. It should be ready; I had Colin fire the boiler.”
“I had rather walk.”
“Fine, but do not complain to me about your aching, arthritic knees.”
“The child is dead, Merlin, and its mother as well. Sleep soundly.”
The old woman left. Merlin stroked Roc’s head, and it cooed softly. Where was Nimue? Death. Plague. Murder. This night, of all nights, he needed company.
FIVE
Plague. The word, quite justifiably, caused panic.
More and more reports reached Camelot, often multiple ones in the same day. Dover was devastated; the disease spread more quickly there than seemed quite possible. Not everyone who was infected died; but the survivors, on the assumption they could not be reinfected, were pressed into service collecting and burying the dead in mass graves. In Canterbury, once it became inescapable that plague had arrived, there were riots. People hoarded food; robbers attacked the well-to-do and took their gold and their supplies of household goods, against the coming food shortages. The wealthy barricaded themselves in their houses, partly for protection from the mobs, partly in hopes of avoiding the disease.
Rumors of what was happening spread more quickly than the disease itself. There were riots in London days before any cases manifested there. Merlin and Britomart put up a map of southern England and kept careful note of outbreaks, riots and the other attendant horrors.
“Look,” Merlin said to her. “It is following the main trade routes—the roads. Spreading like a living thing, like a carpet of flowers.”
“Odd analogy, Merlin. But then, you always look at things in the most perverse way possible.”
“Perverse? If you say so, Britomart. But no one has yet found a way to combat this awful disease. It strikes so quickly, its victims are often dead before the physician can arrive.”
She pounded her fist. “We must have Arthur issue an edict. Have it proclaimed in every town and village in the country. No unnecessary public gatherings. Markets must be canceled. No festivals of any kind, not even religious ones. The people will want religion, for comfort, but they must pray at home, with their families, to whatever gods they choose to believe in.”
“Yes, Brit, of course. Those are all very sensible precautions. But . . .”
“Yes?”
“There are physicians in every town of any importance.”
“You’ve seen the reports. A lot of them have fled to the hills, Merlin.” She made a sour face. “Doctors.”
“Still, a great many remain. A network of communication among them must be set up, so that they can share information. If we can discover why it is that some people die of this disease while others survive and still others never get sick at all, it may give us a clue how to fight it. We must have Arthur send out riders to help establish the kind of communication this will take.”
“So the riders can bring the plague back to Camelot?”
He frowned. “It will come here anyway. We have sealed off the castle from unnecessary contact with the outside world, but it will come here anyway. It is as inevitable as sunset.” He sat down wearily. “So much for Arthur’s new England.”
“That is hardly the observation of a scientist, Merlin.”
“It is. Everything we have tried to do here—fairness, social justice, all of it—depends on a calm, prosperous society. This disease will undo that. Petty kings and warlords will reassert themselves. Central government will count for next to nothing.”
“It won’t be that bad. It can’t be.”
He looked at her. “Hope is not a word I use often. But Brit, I hope you are right.” He shifted his gaze to the window. “I keep wishing for rain. Not merely a shower but the kind of massive rainstorm we have had in the past. If nothing else, it would keep people indoors.” He sighed. “It will be winter soon enough. That may save us, if anything can.”
This was all too theoretical for Britomart. “I’ll meet with my senior officers. We’ll find a way to keep the plague out of Camelot, at least.”
“If it can be done, I am certain you are the one to do it. But I have my doubts.”
“It must be done. We are fighting for our lives. That’s when knights are at their best.”
The next morning Arthur summoned his closest advisors to a council on the crisis. Merlin was there, of course, with Nimue assisting him and taking notes, along with Britomart, Simon of York, and the most experienced of his knights, Sir Bedivere, Sir Bors and Sir Kay. Sir Dinadan would normally have been included, but he was in deep mourning over the deaths of this wife and son. Nimue and Petronus stood against a wall and listened, in case Merlin should need them.
Arthur was terse. “We all know the crisis we are facing. The question is what to do. I want to hear every idea you have.”
Merlin as usual took the lead. He laid out everything that was known about the plague—the symptoms, the rapidity with which it spread and the social fallout from it. “We do not know how this disease is transmitted from person to person. It may be airborne, as we believe malaria to be. It may be passed from one victim to the next by physical contact. We have no way of knowing. But not everyone who becomes ill dies. And not everyone becomes ill at all. That is our one hope. Both Colin and Petronus had close contact with the first victim, for instance. If we can discover what makes the difference . . .” He looked around the table, from one of them to the next. “That is the only faint hope I can see.”
Brit explained what was known about the riots, the food hoarding, the widespread panic. “Rumors of the plague,” she told them all, “seem to have reached as far west as the Welsh border and as far north as Hadrian’s Wall. We English have always been a taciturn people. Not now; not in the face of this. People seem unable to stop talking, and the talk is all alarming.”
Various suggestions were made for imposing martial law. The knights seemed to like the idea. “We station troops in all the cities,” Bedivere proposed with enthusiasm. “Then we can control the situation. There will be no riots then.”
“And what will you do when the plague strikes the troops themselves?” Merlin asked.
“It will not. Our soldiers are all in splendid physical condition.”
“More so than the rough sailors who died at Dover?”
Bedivere glared at him, but before he could say anything in response, Brit interjected, “We hardly have enough men to do that, anyway, Bed. How many men does it take to hold a city? And how many cities do we have?”
The discussion grew more and more heated. Merlin kept insisting there was no effective way to combat the disease, absent any real understanding of it; the knights kept countering that military force was the only recourse to prevent social disintegration.
Then suddenly the door of the council chamber flew open. A strong gust of wind extinguished all the candles. And in the doorway loomed a figure in swirling black robes. Once the initial surprise wore off, they realized who it was.
For a moment, no one spoke. Then Arthur said, “Morgan. You certainly do know how to make an entrance.”
“Or, at the very least,” Merlin added, “you know how to use the castle’s drafts to dramatic advantage.”
Arthur went on. “I wish you could enter a room like a normal human being. We already know you are the high priestess.” There was uneasy laughter. “But what are you doing here? This is a private council.”
“I have,” she announced grandly and mysteriously, “determined what has brought this plague.”
Merlin was deadpan. “You have.”
“Yes. And I—and I alone—know what will stop it.”
He rolled his eyes. “And I suppose it is a matter of worship. With you in charge, of course.”
She brushed Merlin aside. “It is a foolish king,” she intoned, “who ignores the gods.”
But Merlin was not done with her. “Yes, of course.”
Arthur got between them. “Merlin, let Morgan tell us what she knows. You have already confessed that you do not know what to do. Perhaps she does.”
Merlin snorted and waved a hand. “Fine. Let her talk, then.”
Morgan moved to the council table, but instead of taking a seat she stood there, dominating everyone else. “I can hardly be troubled to explain the situation to a roomful of doubters.”
“No one doubts you,” Arthur told her. “It is only that we are so frustrated by this awful situation.”
Simon added, “You are our priestess. You are the chosen of the gods. How could we be anything but respectful of what you say?”
Merlin shifted in his chair and shot Simon a withering glance. “How, indeed?”
Morgan, still standing, still imperious, looked slowly around the table, from one person to the next. Her silence was glacial. Then finally she spoke. “It is,” she said slowly and solemnly, “the Stone.”
Everyone in the room, plainly baffled, looked first to Arthur, then to Merlin. Finally, after what seemed an eternity, Merlin asked her, “The stone?”
She nodded solemnly.
“What stone? What the devil are you talking about?”
“Now, now, Merlin.” Arthur wanted peace. “That is hardly the tone to take.” He turned to his sister. “But Morgan, might you please clarify what you just told us? Precisely what ‘stone’ are you referring to?”
“You ought to know well enough, Arthur. You spent years trying to find it. You sent one knight after another questing for it. Even now, it sits in that cabinet with your precious Excalibur and your other treasures.”
Nimue, hearing this, could not contain herself. “You mean the Stone of Bran?!”
A faint smile crossed Morgan’s lips. “You take my meaning precisely.”
For the second time the council members looked at one another in obvious bewilderment. Arthur seemed most puzzled of all. He groped for something to say. “The—the—but Morgan, you are the one who prodded me to find it. You told me that having it in my possession would bring uncounted blessings to England. Now you claim that what it has brought is death.”
Merlin snorted derisively. “Might we get back to discussing practical matters? People are dying.”
Before Arthur could respond, Morgan went on. “The god Bran is angry. His sacred Stone has been removed from its resting place. The plague is the expression of his, shall we say, displeasure?”
“But—but—” Arthur was trying to wrap his mind around what she’d said. “But Perceval found it in an abandoned barn in Wales, near a place called Grosfalcon. In a cattle stall. It was buried in three feet of dirt and mud. Now it rests in a place of honor in the most splendid castle in England. What could the god be unhappy about?”
“Nevertheless,” she said smugly. “You have had reports enough of the devastation. And,” she intoned menacingly, “there is worse to come.”
“And I suppose,” Merlin interjected, “the remedy for the god’s displeasure would be to give you more power or more treasure? Or both?”
Once again she ignored him. “This land is under a curse. Cursed of the gods. Deny their influence all you like. But this I promise you. England will know nothing but death until the Stone is returned to its proper place.”
“To the mud, beneath the cow droppings,” Merlin added unhelpfully.
“You have been warned. Ignore the gods at your peril—and at England’s.” With that she turned and swept out of the room, robes swirling, as abruptly as she had entered.
It took a moment for the tension to ease. Finally Merlin said, “And that is the woman who has charge of all our ‘spiritual lives.’ ”
Arthur sat back. “I wish you’d stop picking at her, Merlin. As you said, she is the high priestess of England. She may be on to something. Things have been bad here ever since the Stone was recovered. Remember the murders of my so—squires. And the killing of the French king Leodegrance on our soil.”
“Are you seriously suggesting that they would be alive today if the Stone had not been dug up?”
“Merlin, my sister is a difficult woman. Even an evil one, some people say. But she does understand these things. You keep telling me that you don’t know what brought this plague, or how it is spread.”
“I keep telling you we do not understand, yes. But Arthur, diseases are natural phenomena. They can be dealt with—if not immediately, then ultimately—by using reason. Logic. Science. Morgan’s arcane flummery will accomplish nothing. But then when, in due time, the plague runs its natural course, she will take credit. She will claim to have ended it with incense or cat’s blood or eye of newt.”
Arthur fell silent for a moment. “No, I think Morgan may be on to something.”
“Arthur, no. This is too serious a situation for—”
“I want to consult my other spiritual advisor. If he agrees with her—”
“Bishop Gildas? The ‘Christian Bishop of England’? The day he and Morgan agree on anything will be the day pigs stop hunting truffles.”
“You concur, then. If Gildas agrees with Morgan about the cause of the plague, we may be certain. Thank you, Merlin.”
“In the name of everything human, Arthur, that is not what I said, and you know it perfectly well.”
“I believe that is as much as we can accomplish here today. You may all go.”
“But, Arthur—”
“Go, I said.”
“Yes, Arthur.”
And so the council meeting ended. Inconclusive as it was, it left no one feeling optimistic.
“The—the Stone of Bran.” Nimue was still incredulous. “So Arthur really thinks that may have brought this pestilence.”
Merlin nodded. “I demonstrated clearly enough that the thing is a fraud when I used its so-called magic to unmask the squires’ killer. But Arthur and most of the court cling to their belief that it is a talisman of unimaginable power. Why does superstition always die so hard?”
Calmly practical as she nearly always was, she told him, “I wouldn’t worry about that too much. Bishop Gildas is certain to tell the king Morgan is wrong. With luck, that will put an end to the matter.”
“But not to the plague. How many people will die while Arthur is shilly-shallying with these fools? But at least Gildas will have the chance to prove that he’s good for something other than passing his collection plate.”
“You are too harsh, Merlin. People’s beliefs bring them comfort.”
“The death toll from the plague has topped three hundred. How much comfort do you think the dead took from Morgan’s spells and charms?”
“They might have died at peace with themselves. We have no way of knowing.”
He sighed. “That is more than I will do, in all probability. I wish my mind was not so restless. So impatient of foolishness.”
Nimue kissed him on the cheek. “Then you wouldn’t be Merlin.”
“Is that supposed to reassure me, in some way?”
“It’s supposed to tell you that I love you, old man. My own father was distant, cold—to say the least. You have never been anything but encouraging to me.”
“You are worth encouraging.”
“So are you, Merlin. So are you.”
“Fine, Nimue. But so is Arthur. Every time I think I’ve managed to persuade him that our laws, our government, our society should be based on reason, he reverts to this preposterous belief in gods and curses and whatnot. I’m surprised he’s not seeking advice from old Pellenore.”
“Pellenore? He’s mad.”
“My point exactly.”
Old King Pellenore was indeed mad, and getting madder, and everyone in Camelot knew it. He never stopped fighting the imaginary dragons, griffins, manticores he encountered on his various imaginary quests through the halls of the castle. That afternoon he was doing battle with a sphinx in the castle refectory, waving his sword wildly at the thin air, when John of Paintonbury came upon him.
