Arthur brooded. “I know Morgan’s bloody reputation. I’ve never quite convinced myself she could be so lethal.”
Merlin hesitated again, but decided to lay out all his suspicions. “She can be. And your father was there with her, Arthur.”
“Uther? England’s famous hero Uther Pendragon?” He laughed. “How badly is he decaying?”
“Rather badly, I’d say. I can’t remember ever seeing anyone more feeble.”
“Good. What on earth was he doing there? He ought to be in a basket on a shelf somewhere. But you’re not suggesting-I mean, he could hardly have been the killer.”
“Hardly. But your family’s history raises, shall we say, so many suspicions.”
“There. You see?” Suddenly Arthur was animated. “You’ve put your finger on precisely why I need to find the right heir. The one who is truly worthy. Thank you for making my point.”
“In the name of everything human, you are relentless, Arthur. People look at your golden hair and call you the Sun King. But you are more like a storm of driving rain and wind.”
“You’re not the first to say so. But you taught me, Merlin. There is no other way to be king.” His smile disappeared. “But do you really mean to say that one of my family must have killed Darrowfield? Are there no other possible suspects?”
“Wherever there is humanity, there are possible suspects. But I was hardly there long enough to know everyone who might have had a motive.”
Suddenly there was a young man at the door, rapping at the lintel impatiently. “How long do you plan to keep me waiting?” Despite his brusque manner he was grinning. He was in his early twenties, to appearances. Short, thin, with unruly black hair and startlingly blue eyes. “I couldbe off taking care of my geese now.”
For a moment Arthur stiffened; then, seeming to recognize the young man, he relaxed. “John. I’m glad you’re here.”
“You might act like it, then. Cooling my heels out here is hardly the reception I-”
“I’m sorry, John. Really I am.” Arthur seemed to remember himself. “Ah, but the two of you haven’t met. John of Paintonbury, this is my friend and trusted advisor Merlin.”
Merlin gaped, uncertain of the protocol. Slowly he extended a hand. “Arthur tells me you are to be his jester.”
“Satirist,” John corrected him.
“Satirist, then.” Merlin made himself smile as he shook the young man’s hand. “You will be living here at Camelot? On the royal bounty?”
John’s eyes flashed. “You needn’t sound so disapproving. None of this is my idea. I was quite content raising geese. It is a modest living, but an honest one.” A mischievous smile crossed his lips. “Unlike being a wizard.”
“You are suggesting,” Arthur interjected, “that those of us who administer England’s affairs are not earning our livings honestly?”
“My geese, Your Majesty, permit themselves to be fattened. And slaughtered, by those who need their meat the most. Perhaps Camelot’s residents might take a lesson from them.” He frowned. “Of course, fattening themselves-that, they are already doing. Every time I turn a corner, there is a table of cakes.”
“The king is terribly fond of cakes.” Merlin was not amused by the young man. “Yet I have seen him go without them altogether, when he needed to. You might take a lesson from that.”
Arthur grinned and turned to Merlin. “There-you see? He will be perfect.”
Merlin was increasingly put off. And puzzled-it was not in character for Arthur to take such insults with such cordiality. He nodded to John, mock-deferentially. “With all the swords here, and with a slew of hotheaded knights wielding them, I suspect I will be earning an honest living soon enough, investigating a murder.”
“Now, now, Merlin, don’t be so touchy.” Arthur wanted peace between them.
“I am not being touchy, Your Majesty.” When he became formal with the king, he always emphasized titles like Your Majestywith strong irony. “Simply realistic. Your knights are hardly known for self-restraint. Or for having a sense of humor about themselves.”
“John will soon cure them of that.” Arthur put an arm around his new jester’s shoulder. “Won’t you, John?”
“If it pleases the king.” John smiled with unconvincing modesty. “I would do anything in my power to please Your Majesty.” His tone mimicked Merlin’s perfectly.
“Yes. Of course you would.” Merlin put on a tight smile. “As would we all. Now if you will excuse me, Arthur, there is a national crisis brewing. Or would you prefer that I remain here and listen to your new court comedian as he babbles more affronts?”
“There will be plenty of time for that, Merlin. John will be here permanently, remember?”
“Thank you for reminding me.” To John he said, “You should be careful, young man. There is always the danger that living with geese may have turned you into one.”
John laughed at him. “Honk, honk.”
Exasperated, Merlin turned to go. “If you want me, Arthur, I will be in my tower.”
Every day for the next week dispatches arrived from Captain Larkin at Dover, who had returned from his trip and was grappling with the situation there. Slowly, most of the town’s citizens had returned. There had been several more deaths, all in the same manner as the first ones-rapid onset of symptoms, followed by stillness. Additionally, three more people had been stricken with the disease and then recovered almost as quickly as they had fallen ill. A low-grade fever seemed to be spreading through the town, as well. To date, none of the garrison’s soldiers had been stricken, but that seemed only a matter of time.
Merlin wrote back as frequently as he received the letters. He requested Larkin to gather as much information as he could about the victims-occupations, families, any contact they may have had with the visiting mariners. He advised that their close friends and relatives be watched carefully. And he asked for detailed accounts from the three survivors of what they had experienced, their feelings, and any possible contacts they may have had with the foreigners.
On the tenth day the missive from Dover was signed by Sergeant Ewan. Captain Larkin had fallen ill in the same way as the others and died soon after. He was the first man of the garrison to be afflicted, and Merlin conjectured that he may have contracted the infection elsewhere. “He must have passed among a great many people on his travels, some of them infected.”
Merlin consulted with Arthur and Britomart and arranged for Ewan to be appointed temporary commander of the fort. His dispatches continued, sometimes two or even three per day. The disease was spreading slowly but quite inexorably through the town. Reports began to reach Camelot of deaths in the surrounding countryside as well.
Then further reports, sent by local officials, arrived from nearby towns and villages. Two people had died at Folke stone. A whole family of pig farmers expired at Frogham. And there were unconfirmed reports of people dying of a mysterious disease at Sandwich and even Canterbury. The reports of what killed them, and descriptions of the disease’s progress, never varied. The officials at Canterbury were quite perplexed; but they had heard rumors of a mysterious disease, possibly the plague, at Dover. Did Camelot have any reliable information, they asked, about what it was? Merlin wrote and told them there was no definite information about the nature of the disease, while admitting it was spreading. “There is no cause for panic,” he assured them. “You may trust that Camelot will keep you posted as the situation develops.”
“Marian, Robert, Wayne.”
The three of them had returned from Darrowfield Castle. Merlin met with them in a small room at Camelot. It was seldom used and sparsely furnished; there were only a few chairs, nothing else. No tapestries hung on the walls, so the room was drafty. Marian of Bath and her sons were seated, waiting for Merlin.