"Cheer up. You're an old man, Merlin. You won't have to see much more of it."
"If you mean that as a joke—"
"I don't."
"I can't tell you how I hope you are right."
"Let Guenevere go free and we'll see."
"Unfortunately the king is devoted to his kingship. It is not as if I have any real choice."
After a long pause Nimue asked, "What was he like?"
"Who? Arthur?"
"Yes. When he was young, I mean. Before he took the throne."
"Do young men differ very much? He was a scrawny boy with big dreams and bigger ambitions. His father, Uther, was a minor warlord who ignored his son com pletely. Arthur had potential, but he was painfully trusting, not to mention naïve. And I am afraid he has never quite reconciled himself to the fact that other people's plans might cross his."
"What will he do to Guenevere?"
"Do you care, Nimue?"
"I care because she is a woman. So few of us ever ap proach so near to power."
"Maybe someday you will."
"Don't humor me. Arthur will do what you counsel him to do. What will it be?"
"You overestimate my influence. Sometimes I have to shake him by the shoulders, at least figuratively, to get him to see the simple truth."
"And what is the truth, Merlin?"
He glanced at her sideways. "I don't know. I wish I did. Would you like to shake me?"
The following morning, before dawn, Guenevere was brought to Arthur's chambers in chains by a half dozen soldiers under Britomart. Only two torches burned in the room; the corners were in deep shadow. The queen wore plain clothing made of dyed homespun, no embroidery— not exactly a prisoner's clothes but not much better.
They made her sit on a low, rough wooden stool. Torchlight shined directly into her eyes. Arthur and Merlin sat waiting. She entered the study proudly, head unbowed. But she looked drawn and frightened, and de spite her best efforts, she could not hide it. Merlin won dered if it was Arthur or Lancelot who was wearing her down.
Arthur leaned close to Merlin. "I've never seen her like this."
"Don't lose your resolve, Arthur."
"I know that I can't afford that."
"Then remember your duty to yourself. If that does not carry enough weight, remember your duty to England, to give us a stable monarchy. Do you want to see her on the throne?"
"Of course not. England would be a French province in no time. Or a Byzantine one. I can't tell you how I hate politics."
"Then you must put an end to this scheme now, and for good."
Arthur turned to his chained wife. "Guenevere. We found this dagger among your things." He produced a golden knife with an elaborately carved ivory handle. "It's quite a beautiful piece. Wherever did you get it? Was it a gift, perhaps?"
She did not respond, did not even move.
"From Lancelot, perhaps? On what occasion might he have given you such a thing?"
"So you've finally noticed me. I thought your fascinat ing conversation with Merlin would distract you all day."
"There is no point to sarcasm, Guenevere. It will hardly help your case."
"There is every point to it, Arthur. As a wise man once observed, there is no fate that cannot be surmounted by scorn. And scorn is what I feel for you and your 'chief min ister.' Scorn in abundance."
Merlin decided it would be a mistake to let this go on. He leaned forward in his seat and announced, "Guenevere of Camelliard, you are charged with treason against the crown of England."
"And what," she said softly in a flat tone, "is the nature of this supposed treason?"
"You have conspired to replace your husband at the head of the government of England. You have conspired to assas sinate him. And, unwilling even to wait for his death, you have married bigamously your coconspirator."
She stared at them wordlessly.
After what seemed an eternity of silence Arthur burst out, "Say something. Have you no defense?"
Calmly Guenevere lowered her eyes. "You cannot pos sibly have evidence of any of this, for the simple reason that the charges are false."
Merlin produced several documents. "This," he intoned, "is an eyewitness account of your marriage to Lancelot du Lac. And this letter was intercepted on a ship from Byzan tium. You have been carrying on diplomatic negotiations with Justinian. Or trying to. We have his letter to you as evidence of it."
"I invited them to my birthday celebration, that is all." She looked at the king. "It was your idea, Arthur, remem ber? Months ago you suggested to me that we make my birthday a national event and use it to increase England's prestige internationally."
"I never authorized you to do this." He took the letter and shook it in her direction.
"And at any rate," Merlin interjected, "are you going to suggest that it was also Arthur's idea for you to murder him?"
"I have contemplated nothing of the sort."
"I heard you myself, only yesterday. 'Poison, a knife in the dark.' " He picked up the ivory-handled dagger. "This knife, perhaps?"
Her eyelid fluttered slightly; otherwise she showed no reaction. "How ironic, Merlin. For years you have urged Arthur not to turn England into a society dominated by informers, gossips and spies. Now you have become one yourself."
"Merlin is not the one on trial here." Arthur raised his voice.
"Is that what this is? A trial? Where is the jury, then? Where is the judge? As trials go this is most irregular."
"I am the king of England. The final judge."
She smiled. "So I am to be executed." Almost as if it were an afterthought, she added, "And Lancelot, too, I imagine. In this fair England of yours, this land of justice and equality."
Arthur sat back and crossed his legs casually. "No."
For the first time Guenevere reacted with something like genuine emotion. "What did you say?"
"I said," he told her with a grin, "no. I could easily con sign you to the flames or the chopping block. But that would be too easy, don't you think? Or, let us say, too convenient."
"Do it then, and get this over with. I would never wish to inconvenience you."
"No, it would be much too simple. Merlin?"
The king put his feet up on the table and leaned back; he avoided looking directly at his wife. Merlin spoke for him.
"You are to be taken to Corfe Castle under guard. Both you and Lancelot, that is. There you will be confined but have the freedom of the castle. Any attempt to escape will result in you being transported separately to other castles and imprisoned there for the rest of your lives."
Guenevere smiled. "Or the rest of Arthur's reign, which is likely to be of much shorter duration."
Merlin ignored this and went on. "In November your birthday celebration will occur exactly as planned—with additional guests invited by Arthur."
"May I ask whom?"
"You may not. When the guests arrive you will make a show of supporting Arthur in whatever diplomatic negotia tions he conducts. Once again, failure to do so will result in announcement of your indisposition, and you will be promptly jailed. Once the event has ended, you will remain in Corfe Castle under strict and permanent house arrest. Lancelot will be taken elsewhere."
Guenevere might have been made of granite. She spoke to Arthur, not Merlin. "I have been living in virtual con finement at Corfe for years now. Do you honestly believe that the threat of further confinement will intimidate me?"
Arthur glared at her. "For as long as I can remember you have flouted your marriage vows—one of which was an oath of loyalty to England. If this is what it takes to enforce them, so be it. I am not the one who brought us to this pass, Guenevere."
"No. Of course not. Very well, send us back, then."
"Not right away." Merlin folded the Byzantine letter and put it back in his pocket. "Britomart has arrangements to prepare. Your soldiers—the ones who serve and protect you at Corfe—are technically members of the English army. They are to be posted to the mos
t far-flung parts of the country, to Scotland and Wales. New troops—or should I say guards—will be provided to look after you, ones whose loyalty to Arthur is beyond question. Captain John Dalley from the king's garrison at Corfe will be posted at your castle to command them,"
Guinevere lowered her eyes and softened her voice. "Arthur, please don't do this. I'm begging." Tenderly she whispered, "I still love you."
Arthur laughed at her. "You do? So, was your 'marriage' to Lancelot actually a ritual renewal of our wedding vows, with him standing in for me?" He gestured to Britomart. "Take her away."
Guenevere sprang to her feet. "No! I will not be led in chains like a criminal."
"'Please don't put a saddle on me. Not on me. I am a horse.' " Merlin laughed and shifted his weight, prepared to turn away from her. "Brit."
Seemingly from nowhere Guenevere produced a knife, a small silver one whose blade gleamed in the torchlight. She made a move toward Arthur. But Britomart overpowered her and the knife clattered to the floor. Merlin called for soldiers.
"So help me, Arthur, you will pay for this." She strug gled as Brit coiled another length of chain around her; she spit in Brit's face. Brit smiled and pulled the chains tighter. Then two of the soldiers took her by her arms and led her from the room as she struggled vainly against their grasp.
When they were gone Merlin turned to Arthur. "So help me, you have the strangest taste in women."
"I was a boy when we met. She seduced me. I fell in love. Don't make this harder for me than it is."
"Sorry, Arthur. I've suspected for a long time that you still love her."
"Forgive me, Merlin, for being such an irrational crea ture."
"Forgive you for being human?"
Suddenly Arthur peered at him. "Does anyone have a secret from you, Merlin? I thought I was being very close with my emotions."
"Perhaps I know you too well. How long has it been? Twenty years? More?"
"Brit plants her spies here, there and everywhere, yet she only knows half of what goes on. You, Merlin—you stay in your tower with your ravens and your lenses and your medicines, and you read us as clearly as you do those books that line your walls."
"Comedies, mostly."
"Don't be flippant."
"Sorry, Arthur. But it really isn't hard to understand people. Most of them do the obvious thing from the obvi ous motive. Only the Byzantines have learned to be consis tently more subtle. That is why the prospect of having them here chills me so."
"What is it you said once? We are stepping into a viper's nest of our own construction. When all their subtle devices fail, they murder."
"Let us hope we can defang these vipers before they strike."
"Let us hope they never strike at all."
"To hope for that would be to deny the viper's nature. But we must be permanently watchful, Arthur. We have no choice but to go ahead with the birthday nonsense. If we back away from it, I am afraid Justinian would see us as weak. And he would strike—invade. But while we are reveling and eating Guenevere's birthday cake and drink ing toasts to one another's good health, let us remember to voice a hope that everyone will emerge from this alive."
Arthur was drunk. Fully, completely, numbly drunk. His wife's perfidy was not forgotten, exactly, but it didn't seem to matter.
It was the dark middle of the night, and three candles burned low in his bedroom; they did not give much light at all. The king lay in bed. Four empty wineskins sat on the floor beside him. The room spun around him, and he found it reassuring. No one could penetrate that kind of moving room, not Guenevere, not Lancelot, not Justinian.
Slowly, groggily, he climbed out of bed and reeled to ward the door, holding on to this piece of furniture or that for support. A part of his mind understood that it was not the room that was reeling but himself. He laughed, quite loudly.
At the door the guard had been nodding off. He was only half awake when Arthur staggered past him. "Sir— Your Majesty!"
"I'm going to the privy, Walter."
"Let me help you."
"You want to help me take a piss?"
"Let me help you get there and back. The stairs are steep, and you are—you may need someone to steady you."
"I'll be fine. Stay here."
"But—"
"Stay."
"Yes, sir."
Arthur took a candle from a wall sconce and lurched forward. And lost his balance, slamming into the wall. The guard Walter moved to help him, but Arthur glanced back over his shoulder with a look that warned him to keep his distance. "I'll be fine, Walter."
"Yes, sir. But I—"
"Stay!" He roared it.
Walter, quite uncertainly, resumed his post. Arthur stag gered on.
The stairs were in fact steep and he had to steady him self against the wall as he descended. The castle was dark; absolutely no one was awake at that hour and in that deep, deep night. Wax from his candle dripped onto Arthur's hand, burning it, but he didn't mind and kept going.
Finally he reached the privy. The blackness was Stygian; he had that thought, then decided to leave the Styx to Mer lin's classical library and laughed to himself. The candle he was carrying barely cut the darkness; but the privy was fa miliar and he found his way to the seat without much trou ble. And he plopped himself down quite heavily. Then after a few moments he lowered his head and drowsed off, think ing that he wished he'd brought a skin of wine with him.
Suddenly there was an explosion of pain, like a lightning bolt striking his shoulder. He opened his eyes and looked around. There was someone there in the dark room. He reached for the man, missed and fell to the floor. The can dle fell and went out. "Help! Murder! Help!" As the last echoes of his voice died off he could hear his assailant's footsteps as he—or she?—ran away in the dark. Then, un consciousness took him.
When he woke he was on a bed in Merlin's surgery. Merlin was rubbing a salve on the knife wound in his shoulder; Nimue was behind Merlin, preparing bandages.
"It is not too bad, Arthur. At least it is not too deep. I think the attacker wanted to stab you in the neck. But in that darkness . . ." He smiled.
"An assassin has struck and you find it amusing."
"I was thinking that I have lectured you about your drinking often enough. I will not do it again."
"For this relief, much thanks."
"Did you see who it was?"
Arthur tried to shift his weight and winced in pain. "Drunk, in the darkest part of the night, in a privy with nothing but a candle?"
"Britomart wants to talk to you. She will ask."
"Let her."
"She will press you to remember harder than I would."
"Women."
"Silly woman—she wants to keep you alive." Merlin grinned again. "Which seems to be more than you do."
"Don't nag." Arthur sat up on the bed, winced again and buried his face in his hands. "Guenevere. She is behind this. She must be."
"Or Justinian, or Leodegrance, or someone else we don't even know about."
Arthur tried to stand up and winced with pain. "You said this wasn't bad."
"I said it is not too bad."
"It hurts like hell." Slowly he stood, steadying himself against the bed. Then he looked Merlin in the eyes. "I hate this, Merlin. I hate a world where people do things like this."
"You wanted the throne."
"Stop saying that all the time."
"Sorry, Arthur. But this is the world you wanted. You could have been a jolly farmer, plowing fields and hoping the brood sow will drop healthy piglets."
"Stop it, Merlin. My sweet loving wife has tried to have me murdered. What did I ever do to her—what could I pos sibly have done—to make her hate me so?"
"Simple. You got between her and her ambition. Brit is planning to take personal charge of your security now. This will not happen again."
"Not now, it won't. But what will happen when we all gather at Corfe?"
"We will all get fat on birthday cake."
Three
Arthur's wounds healed well but slowly. He complained to Merlin about it. "When I was a boy I used to heal so quickly. Maybe you should try another ointment."
"You are not a boy anymore, Arthur. No physician, not Hippocrates himself, has an ointment that could reverse ag ing. You need to take better care of yourself. And drink less."
The Lancelot Murders Page 5