“Do not make the mistake you made on that journey to Wales. Take plenty of people. Knights.” Suddenly, violently, Merlin sneezed.
Arthur narrowed his eyes. “You aren’t coming down with the ague that’s been having its way with our people, are you?”
“No, Arthur. It was nothing more than a sneeze.”
He looked doubtful. “At any rate, the journey to Cumbria will be a lot less eventful. It is a much more civilized part of the country.”
“Yet it comes fully equipped with ‘old vipers.’ ”
The king sighed. “Point taken. I’ll get Simon and Bed to work preparing the party right away. You are coming, of course.”
“Me?! No! I mean, I’ve only just-I-I-Arthur, I need a spell of rest.”
“You can rest in the carriage. The roads are good. The ride will be smooth.” Suddenly something occurred to him. He snapped his fingers. “Old Fedora!”
“I beg your pardon, Arthur?”
“Fedora, the midwife. She was at Uther’s court before she came here. She always says she feels a certain loyalty to me.” He turned shamefaced. “She delivered me, you know.”
“I had always assumed as much. So she oversaw your mother Igraine’s confinement. At Uther’s court.”
Arthur nodded. “Ancient history.”
Again Merlin sniffled. “And was your mother still married to Gorlois, or had she and Uther made their union official by that time?”
“I don’t wish to dig up the past.” Arthur glared. “And so help me, if you say, ‘Like father, like son,’ I’ll toss you down the steps.”
“I do not speak in clichés.” He sighed. “But please, Arthur, do not make me go along on this trip.”
Arthur waited for him to go on.
“The journey to Grosfalcon was hard on me. You know that. And now this spell of frigid weather. Every joint in my body is aching like the devil.”
“But-”
“Another long trip would do me no good at all. Please, Arthur. It is only a funeral. You can hardly need me.”
Arthur scowled. “Very well, I suppose you’re right. There is nothing you can do.” He broke into a grin. “Unless you can work a spell to bring the old reprobate back to life.”
“You have been spending too much time with Bishop Gildas.”
Arthur left the following morning, accompanied by one hundred knights, plus squires and attendants of various kinds. It was a three days’ ride to Cumbria. If the weather stayed dry, they could travel quickly and be back at Camelot within a week.
Merlin went to the courtyard to see them off. His nose was runny and he carried a kerchief, and he had another one in his pocket. He took the king by the sleeve and led him aside. “It occurs to me that there is another good reason why you should attend this funeral.”
Arthur was in a good mood, smiling and energetic. “And what would that be?”
Merlin lowered his voice. “Your patrimony.”
“Are you serious? I have all of England.”
“Even so. Think, Arthur. Uther was widely respected in his day, marital indiscretions or no. You are his heir. Claiming your inheritance rights will only help to bolster your claim to the throne.”
“But I already-”
“Equally to the point, you must make certain that Morgan has no chance to make herself Uther’s heir.”
“I see your point.” He seemed to lose energy. “But-but-”
“Hm?”
“Whatever people may think about the legitimacy of my parents’ marriage, I am the eldest. Morgan is arguably even less legitimate than I am. Her mother was-”
“Do you think the technical points of genealogy will matter if she gets the barons to support her?”
Arthur whistled. “I had best get moving. No use giving her more time to subvert my loyal subjects.”
“I thought you would see it that way. Travel well, Arthur. Send messages as things develop.”
Fifteen minutes later the party left. Merlin remained standing alone in the courtyard, looking after them, not moving. Suddenly he was overcome by a fit of coughing. One of the sentries approached him. “Is anything wrong, sir?”
“I hope not.” He put a hand on the man’s shoulder. “I hope not.”
Roc flew down out of the sky and perched on his shoulder. He stroked the bird’s head and went back inside Camelot.
By sundown Merlin was quite ill-feverish, achy, congested. He took to his bed and slept. Roc and the other ravens seemed puzzled. They lingered by his bedside for a few minutes, then when he did not respond they left. Petronus watched over him as best he could with his limited medical knowledge.
Nimue returned from Darrowfield the next day, having made the journey there and back again in very good time. She realized that Merlin had contracted the same influenza she had just recovered from. She brought him soup from the kitchen and kept monitoring his condition carefully. Petronus wanted to help, but she warned him to stay away lest he fall victim to the disease, too.
For days he remained unconscious, waking only to eat and even then not seeming aware of his surroundings. In his sleep he muttered, vague but alarming words about murder near the crown, traitors striking near the very heart of England. At times he raved quite deliriously.
The infection spread in the castle. It struck knights, squires, servants with varying degrees of severity. Even Simon of York fell victim to it. No one was certain what to do, since to nurse the sick could only serve to spread the disease to the ones doing the nursing. The only one in the castle with substantial medical knowledge and experience was Merlin, and he was out of commission. Nimue did her best to present a confident front and to manage all the efforts to contain the disease; but it was only a front, and she felt inadequate.
When she was not tending to the outbreak, she did her best to keep current on all the reports that were coming in from local officials about the plague. Cold weather did indeed seem to be halting its spread. There were still occasional riots, especially for food, but those could be safely left in the hands of local authorities.
Then on the fourth day Merlin’s fever broke. He awoke, sat up in bed, looked around and barked at Nimue, “I’m hungry. Why hasn’t Simon sent my breakfast?”
Nimue watched him with a smile. “So you’re finally up.”
“What do you mean, finally? I’m hungry.”
“You’ve been asleep for four days, Merlin. And it’s nearly sundown, not time for breakfast.” She crossed the room to him and put a hand on his forehead. “Your fever’s finally broken.”
Realization began to dawn. “I have had the influenza?” “You and several dozen others. I’ll send for some porridge.”
“Porridge? I need my strength. Send for some beef.”
“Yes, Merlin.” Amused by his ferocity, she went to the door and called for a servant. When the boy was gone, she turned back to Merlin. “You’ve been missing the fun. Simon has been sick, too. They say he’s been complaining like an old woman.”
“Well, what can you expect? That is what he is.” He sat up. “What word have we had from Arthur?”
“None at all.”
“Blast. And how widespread is this awful infection?” He narrowed his eyes. “You are the one who gave it to me.”
“A few dozen people are ill. The knights are grumbling about a disease that does not respect their rank.”
“They would. How serious do things look?”
“Two people have died. Two elderly servants. So I was worried about you.”
“I am not elderly.”
She laughed at him. “No, only your hips are. Anyway, other than those two, people seem to recover and show no signs of being the worse for wear.”
“That is good. But tell me, what did you find in Darrowfield?”
She shook her head. “Nothing of any real interest. Lady Darrowfield was not cultivating belladonna. Peter helped me inspect her garden. There was nothing suspicious.”
“Peter.” Merlin sat on the edge of his bed. His voice betrayed his misgivings.
“Why that tone? Do you suddenly distrust him? He was a great help to you on the trip to Grosfalcon. You said so yourself.”