It registered. “Oh-the Great Queen.”
“She calls herself that?”
“Everyone calls her that. She is the rightful ruler of England.” He paused uncertainly. “Isn’t she?”
“Her brother Arthur is King of all the Britons. You would do well to remember that.”
“Yes, sir. But-but the Grea-but Morgan le Fay hasn’t been here for months. Why are you asking me about her?”
Merlin sighed and sat down again. The stool wobbled, and he got quickly to his feet. “Is there no decent furniture is this mill? What did Lulua sit on?” But before George could answer, Merlin held up a hand. “No. That is not a thing I want to know.” He moved to the door. “Robert!”
A moment later the door opened and Robert put his head in. “You need something, Merlin?”
“A good chair. Find one.”
“Yes, Merlin.” He closed the door behind him.
Merlin turned back to George. “The matriarchs effectively ruled England for centuries and styled themselves queens like, apparently, Morgan. Boadicea was the most famous of them. They invoked their gods, cast their so-called spells, worked their supposedly magical charms, did everything they could to cow warlords and common people alike into obeying them. And they had armies. Then they were displaced, first by Arthur’s father, Uther Pendragon, who went a long way toward unifying the country, then by Arthur himself. But you must know all that.”
“I do. Some of it at least. I was taught. But my lessons were never couched in language like yours, Merlin.”
“Of course not, no. But the witches-”
“I was always taught to call them priestesses, sir.”
“Priestesses, then. Under their Great Queen. They want their power back. They have been conspiring against the king. You must tell me what you know of their clandestine affairs.”
The boy looked lost. “I’m afraid I don’t know much, sir. Sometimes the Great Queen would come here to confer with Lulua. Sometimes other priestesses would. But I never knew what they talked about.”
“No, of course not.” Merlin was annoyed but worked to keep it from showing. “But anything you can remember may be of use. Scraps of conversation you overheard when you were serving them, perhaps.”
The boy paused for a long moment. “I’m sorry, Merlin, really I am, but I never heard a thing.”
Merlin sighed a resigned sigh. “No, of course you did not. But try and think back. Try. Anything that comes to mind-”
“It is important, isn’t it?”
“Where is Robert with that chair?” He pulled the door open. Robert was on his knees just outside. He had obviously been eavesdropping. He jumped to his feet. “Here is your chair, Merlin.”
“Thank you. Now go and join the others and get some sleep.”
“Will you be needing anything else, sir?”
“Go, I said!”
Robert turned his back and left. Merlin watched him go, suspicious of him for the first time. Why had the boy been listening? What did he hope to hear? Then he dragged the chair into place and turned back to George. The boy seemed honest enough. He decided to trust him. “You must not repeat what I am about to tell you. Do you understand that? Not to anyone.”
“Yes, sir.”
“There have been deaths. A series of them. Of people who were close to Arthur.” He lowered his voice. “Potential heirs.” He leaned back in the chair. “These deaths give every appearance of being natural, but I am having more and more doubts. Do you follow me?”
“Yes, Merlin.”
“That knight who is ill, Accolon-”
“That poor Frenchman?”
“Exactly. I am suspicious of his illness.”
“He is related to the king?” The boy whistled softly.
Merlin avoided the question. “And my valet, Robert, the one who was just here, he may be at risk as well.” Softly, almost as if in a reverie, he added, “If he is the ille-” He caught himself. “Listen, shortly the wounded men, including Accolon, will be brought to this room for the night. I will sleep here as well. And I want you to, also. Be alert for anything unusual that may occur.”
“Yes, Merlin.” The boy lowered his eyes. “Is this… is this a test?”
“Let us say it is a challenge. Watch everyone.”
“Yes, sir. I will. Trust me, sir.” The boy hesitated, then went on. “Merlin, something you said…”
“Yes?”
“Do you really mean to say that the wi-the priestesses do not have any magical abilities?”
“That is precisely what I mean to say.”
George fell silent. This was obviously a new thought for him.
A moment later servants appeared, under Peter’s supervision, carrying the wounded on litters. Accolon was muttering in his sleep. Two of the others were awake and evidently amused at being treated like invalids. The third of them, to appearances, was sleeping soundly. Peter was clearly in charge, telling the servants where to lay them. “Make certain they all have blankets. And bank the fire as high as you can. The night will be cold.”
Robert also entered the room, carrying a large bowl. He smiled at Merlin. “I’ve had a bowl of spiced wine heated. I thought, with this frigid wind blowing-”
“Very good, Robert. Pour cups for all our patients. And one for me. And for Peter, of course.”
“And for me?” George smiled eagerly.
Merlin looked at him doubtfully, then said, “All right, but only a small cup.”
Once all the patients were made comfortable, Peter saw that beds were made up for Merlin and the boy. Servants extinguished all the lamps in the room but one. Merlin drank his wine, and it was delicious. Soon he grew drowsy. He climbed onto his pallet and wrapped the blanket around himself. Soon the one remaining lamp burned itself out, and there was nothing but the light from the fireplace.
The wind outside howled and blew wildly. Once or twice the mill actually shook in it, but it was built solidly enough to withstand the storm. The great millstones turned and made their constant grinding sound.
After a few moments everyone in the darkened room found the stones’ sound comforting, reassuring. It lulled them to sleep.
Merlin slept, and his sleep was troubled. He dreamed about Arthur’s sons. One by one they were being devoured by the dragons of their imaginings, and he stood watching, powerless to stop it. He would wake in the huge dark room lit only by the fire in the hearth, to the sound of the millstones turning, disoriented. When, after a moment, he remembered where he was, he would close his eyes again, only to have more dreams. Each time, the fire burned lower.
In his dreams he saw Darrowfield and his sons, bound to the altar stone at Stonehenge, screaming for their lives, a faceless villain cutting them, blood streaming from their throats.
All these deaths were connected somehow, but how? The murdering dragons laughed at him.
There were sounds in the night, muffled, agonized screams.
More dreams came.
And again he would dream of the plague ravishing the English countryside. Fevers raged, red-black spots erupted, populations expired. Then came gentle snows and the plague stopped. He stood in a snowbound landscape wondering again and again,
Merlin awoke to an agonized scream. He sat up and rubbed his eyes. As it had every time he had wakened through the night, it took him a moment to remember where he was. The fire in the hearth was nearly gone; a few wisps of low, dying flame danced there and embers glowed, but their light was not much help against the night. The great room was growing cold and his arthritic hip was aching. “Peter! Robert!”
In the night there was nothing but the sound of the turning stones. Slowly he stood and strained his eyes trying to see what was happening in the room. “Robert! We want light!”
Slowly he regained his bearings. The sound of the millstones reminded him where he was, and why.
“George?”
Nothing. No sound but the stones.
More loudly he called, “George!”
A soft groan came from the direction of the millstones.
“George?”
The door opened and Peter entered, carrying a lamp. “You called, Merlin?”
“Get more lights in here. Something is wrong.”
“You should never have used a room this large for your infirmary. It’s so cold in here.” He looked around. “Let me put more logs on the fire.”
“Do it quickly. Then get lamps.”
From the shadows near the millstones came another groan.
“George?”
No answer.
To Peter, Merlin said, “Get your lamp close to the stones. Something is wrong. I feel it.”
Peter finished arranging the logs in the hearth and took his lamp to the stones.
And there was George. He was between the stones, and they were turning inexorably. The entire left side of his body was crushed and bleeding. The stones moved on in their circular path. George was barely conscious. He turned his head feebly, looked to Merlin and moaned again. Softly, almost inaudibly, he mouthed the words,
“In the name of everything human!” Merlin jumped to his feet and rushed to the boy. “George, how did this happen? Who did this?” He took George’s good hand.
“Help me, sir. Please.” It was not much more than a whisper.
“Lift him out, Peter. Quickly!”
Peter handed the lamp to Merlin and slid his arms carefully under the boy’s crushed body. George cried, “No! It hurts!”
“Pull him out, Peter. We can’t leave him there. Quick, before the stones come around again.”
Peter pulled George out from the stones’ path. George screamed quite horribly.
Robert appeared in the doorway, carrying two more lamps.
