“Yes, of course. Only…”
“Yes?”
“Sometimes when we are asleep our minds function with special clarity. Peter was present when each of the murders occurred. John, Bruce, Accolon, little George, even the attempt on Arthur…”
She did not try to hide her skepticism. “You were delirious, Merlin. Can you really make an accusation like that based on fever dreams? Why would he have done all those awful things? What could he have gained?”
“Then it must have been Morgan. Get me my slippers.” He yawned. “I suppose we should be grateful so few have succumbed to this awful disease. No more deaths here, then.”
“Only the very young and the very old seem to be affected in dire ways.” She added pointedly, “The very, very old.”
“Spare me your sarcasm. I am hungry.”
“They say old Fedora is quite unwell. You know-that horrible old midwife. If she goes, I doubt anyone will care much.”
“Fedora!”
“Yes. The most venomous old crone in Camelot.”
“She must not die! I must go to her at once!” He got to his feet and looked around for his cane.
“I thought you were hungry.”
“For the truth, Nimue. Go and fire up my lifting device. I must get to Fedora at once.”
The lift creaked ominously as Merlin descended, and the chains that held his chair swayed. He had to force himself not to look down the full height of the tower.
Nimue, having started the mechanism, raced down the steps to meet him at the bottom. “You’re going to kill yourself on that thing someday. You really ought to have Simon arrange for a suite of rooms down here among the people.”
He got to his feet, leaning heavily on his cane. “Perish the thought. If I had to live every day surrounded by knights, serving girls and Simon of York, I would certainly go mad.”
“There are people who think that the fact that you trust this absurd mechanism is a sign of madness.”
“Be quiet, Colin. We must get to Fedora as quickly as possible.”
There were three old women sitting in the hallway outside Fedora’s room, praying over candles, wailing like forlorn banshees, apparently mourning the imminent demise of their friend.
Merlin, accompanied by Nimue, made his way slowly along the corridor. None of the women showed the least sign of noticing them. They gazed into the candle flames and wailed their orisons, to all appearances aware of nothing else.
They even seemed quite unaware of an overpowering stench that filled the hallway. Nimue covered her mouth and nose with her hand. “Goodness, can that actually be from Fedora?”
“The dissolution of the human body is never agreeable, Colin.” Merlin paused for a beat, then moved on. To the first of the women he encountered, he said, “You should not have those candles burning unsheltered. There is too much that could take fire. Tapestries, wood…”
The woman interrupted her show of mourning. “Stone does not burn.” She went immediately back into her wail.
“Camelot is more wood than stone. Every castle is. You could start a blaze that would endanger us all.”
She wailed.
Merlin nudged her with the tip of his boot. “What is that awful smell? How can you stand it? How can you leave Fedora here?”
She looked up at him. “We are following her instructions. We have sacrificed nine black puppies to the Good Goddess for her.”
“In the name of everything human, woman, what good can you possibly think that will do?”
“It is standard practice, Merlin,” Nimue whispered in his ear. “Morgan used to do it whenever someone in her household was seriously ill. She bred black dogs against the eventuality.”
“Fools!” He bellowed it. “Superstitious dolts!”
He pushed past them, moving more quickly than before. Fedora’s room was pitch-dark. The awful odor seemed to billow out of it. He stared into the blackness for a moment and listened. Faintly, very faintly, he could hear breathing. Except for that, the room was pervaded with the eerie stillness of death. Then softly came the sound of her coughing.
He went back to the hall, took one of the candles and went back inside. Then quietly came Fedora’s voice. “No, young man, you may not have my hand.”
Gently, almost whispering, he said, “Fedora, it is I, Merlin.”
“All you lovely young men. I know what you want. But you may not have it.”
He moved to the bedside and put a hand on her arm. “Fedora, it is Merlin.”
“Merlin?” His voice seemed to register with her. “No. Not Merlin. Not at all.”
Her mind had regressed to her far-off youth. It took him a moment to realize. “Tell me about your young men, Fedora.”
“No!” It was almost a hiss. The sharpness of the expletive made her cough again.
“Fedora,” he whispered, “I have come to make love to you.”
“No, not you. Not any of you. My love is for the women here.”
“Yes.” He stroked her arm. “Yes, Fedora. I love you.”
He moved the candle close to her. She was soaked in sweat. Her skin was pale as the candle wax, and her breath smelled of imminent decay. There was blood on her lips; she had coughed it up. Merlin took his kerchief and wiped it away.
Like a serpent gifted with speech she hissed, “None of you! Not one of you! I have seen what you do to your women. You will not defile me. It is them I care for, them I tend.” Suddenly, quite abruptly, she shouted, “Uther Pendragon! All your women! All your sons! What will they benefit you now?”
The stench in the room was growing stronger, or Merlin was succumbing to it. It was coming from under the bed. He looked, and by dim candlelight he saw the bodies of the young dogs, arranged in circle, in a basket. The corpses glistened with moisture. Decay was taking them quickly. He called for Nimue.
She stepped into the room and stood just inside the doorway, outlined faintly by light from the hall, and held her hand over her nose. “Merlin, how can you stand this?”
He gestured under the bed. “Remove them.”
She bent and took the basket, then glanced at Fedora. “She isn’t-is she-?”
“Not yet.” He looked at the dying woman and said almost tenderly, “She told me once that she knows secret things. Let us hope she remembers them in her death throes. And will speak them.”
Nimue looked doubtful. She bent and took the basket with the dogs with one hand. Covering her nose with the other, she left quickly.
Merlin lowered his voice. In a whisper he said, “Fedora, it is I, Uther. I need you.”
“Again?” Eyes closed, she chuckled. “Another one? You are insatiable.”
“You know who the woman is. Who the son is. Tell me their names.”
Fedora opened her eyes wide and without warning spit in his face. She coughed up more blood. “Men! Kings! Your women deserve better than you give them.”
“I know it.”
“You treat them like swine.”
“I know it. I know it. But tell me, Fedora, who is this one? What is her name? What is the name of the child?”
Her hand caught his and squeezed. All the life seemed to leave her body.
Agitatedly he shook her. She must not die. She must not, not till she talked. “Fedora! Wake up! Speak to me.”
Feebly, her eyelids parted. The candle flame seemed not to reflect in them. They were black, dying.
“My new son, Fedora.” He shook her. He whispered. “What is his name?”
So faintly it was almost not a sound but a breath she said the word, “Darrowfield.”
“Darrowfield? Old Lord Darrowfield’s son was really Uther’s?”
Her eyes closed. She repeated the word. “Darrowfield.” There was a violent spasm of coughing, and a great deal more blood came up. It soaked her bed gown and the sheets. And she was still.
Merlin sat staring at her for a long moment. From the hallway came the sound of the women mourning, wailing, as if somehow they knew Fedora had passed on.
So young Lord Darrowfield, his father’s heir, was really the son of Uther, as had long been rumored. He was no mere lord. He was Arthur’s brother. Or had been.