“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
“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 refused 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
