"They don't like me," he whispered to Merlin. "They still think I tried to assassinate Arthur."
"You did." He smiled. "But perhaps they do not know the circumstances. I will have a word with Martin."
"Arthur has forgiven me. Why shouldn't they?"
"I'm not certain forgiven is the right word, Petronus. The king has taken my word for it that you did not do what you did voluntarily. But he is still skeptical. For instance he told me I would be foolish to bring you on this trip. Martin and the others are under strict orders to watch you care fully."
"Oh." The boy sounded glum. "I see."
"Just behave and be careful to report all that you see and hear, and everything will be fine. I want to believe in you. I do, in fact. Do not make me regret it. I brought you because I think you will prove invaluable when we reach Camel liard. Please do so."
Petronus fell silent and walked apart from Merlin and the others for a long while. They passed occasional other travelers on the road now and then. Some were alone; most in groups. More rarely there was a minor lord or a wealthy merchant traveling on horseback, accompanied by servants. Some of them crossed themselves or nodded and smiled warmly at the supposed clerics.
When Petronus spoke again he sounded suspicious. "Why are we doing this, sir? I mean, next to Camelot or even Corfe, Camelliard is nothing."
"Beliveau. The court jeweler. I have a good idea who our murderer is. Beliveau is the one man who can give me the information I need to confirm my guess."
"Who do you suspect?"
"In good time, Petronus, in good time."
The journey to Camelliard took three days. Except for a constant cold, driving wind, it was uneventful. Rain squalls rode the wind; they would soak the wayfarers then vanish quickly. Their cloaks offered some protection; but the rain was so hard it soaked them. By the time they had dried out again, more rain would come.
The knights grumbled; they were finding this trip more miserable than they'd expected. It was with relief that Mer lin noticed an inn on the road ahead. He handed his viewing glass to Martin and suggested they stop there for the night. Almost at once the men's spirits brightened.
There were other guests at the inn, several of them obvi ously from Byzantium. The knights arranged themselves at strategic points around the inn's common room to try to overhear what was being said. But the foreigners spoke their own various languages, and the knights were at a loss to understand them.
Merlin spoke Greek, but the interesting conversations always seemed to be taking place someplace other than where he had settled. Petronus tried his best—he knew a smattering of Greek—but all he could make out was a ref erence to the Archduchess of Mendola.
"Who will be in charge at Camelliard?" Merlin asked.
They were on the second day of their journey, walking on the Pyrenees Road. The knights walked in a group, led by Martin; Merlin and Petronus walked side by side. There were no other wayfarers in sight, so they talked freely among themselves.
"Leodegrance's majordomo, I think, Pierre of Autun." Petronus looked away. "My uncle."
"Good, that will give us an opening."
"Not likely, sir. He doesn't like me. He never has."
"What a turbulent family you have. But at least he knows you. That will give us a level of credibility."
"He'll be happy I'm a novice in a religious order. It will keep me out of his way while he chases various family legacies."
"One way or another," Merlin sighed, "all families have members like that, I suppose. Mine did."
"You never talk about your family, sir."
"No, I do not."
The conversation thus ended, Petronus moved off and walked alone. Merlin kept an eye on the sky to the west; so far there had been no severe weather. The knights were increasingly disgruntled but still compliant. Merlin also kept an eye out for another inn. The weather was growing colder; in wet cloaks it would be unbearable, and he needed the knights in a mood to obey, or at least co operate.
It was after dark when they came to one. Unlike the first one, this was nearly empty. The only other guest was a young woman traveling with a manservant and a brace of hunting dogs. Her servant was large and burly enough to protect her. Merlin had the impression she was wealthy; it was odd for her to be traveling with just one man,
He made conversation with her. And it turned out she was leaving Camelliard. "Something is happening. I'm not certain what, but the mood in the castle is . . . peculiar. Everyone is on edge and distrustful of everything else."
"You are from the castle itself? Do you know a young woman named Petronilla, who was raised there?"
"We were friends. Well, not friends, exactly, but more than acquaintances. I can't say we were ever really inti mate."
"I knew her in England. In fact, I was her confessor." He hoped he had the right tone to sound authentically clerical.
The woman smirked. "I imagine that took up a lot of your time. She always had a lot to confess."
"I may not say." He piously averted his eyes and crossed himself. "My novice, here, is her brother."
She looked at the boy, who had been listening in appro priate monklike silence. "Petronus? You must remember me. I'm Marie Philippeau."
He nodded but maintained his pietistic silence. Merlin was pleased. He steered the conversation gently back to the political situation.
Marie opened up. "Ever since word came that Leode grance was dead, parties have been forming up. I mean at court. Leonilla's party is trying to maintain her position for her return. There are also agents from Justinian, from the Mendola region up in the mountains and even a few hangers-on who simply have to be Flemish. There's going to be trouble, I know it. I decided to take my servant and my dogs and get out while I could." She stroked one of the dogs affectionately.
Merlin pretended complete ignorance. "The situation is that bad?"
"You men of God have no idea how treacherous the world can be when there is power at stake."
"No, I suppose we are naïve in our piety."
"You should stay in your abbeys. They are the only truly safe places left in the world, and the only good places."
"We only leave when we must." He added helpfully, "On God's work, of course."
"But tell me, how is Petronilla? Does she like her life in England?"
"She never seems quite content. Shall I tell her you asked about her?"
"I'd rather you didn't. If she is at all unhappy, that is enough for me." She grinned. "As I said, we were friends."
He tried pumping her for more intelligence about what was going on at Camelliard, but she was too preoccupied for anything but gossip. He tried to learn something more about Petronilla's character and history, but Marie was too completely self-absorbed to say much about her. But he hoped the people at court would be too suspicious of each other to pay much attention to a group of traveling monks.
When they left the inn next morning there were signs that the sun was trying to penetrate the cloud cover. But the wind remained cold and damp. They could not have reached Camelliard too soon to please them.
On the road they passed more people who, like Marie, seemed to be leaving the region "while they could." It was not a promising sign. One young woman fleeing could be put down to fear or distrust. A mass exodus indicated there was something to be afraid of.
They were in the foothills of the Pyrenees now. The road topped a low hill. Then it descended gradually into a valley and then, in the far distance, rose again. At the top of that rise sat Camelliard Castle. Petronus made a point of telling everyone, and Merlin shushed him. "We must be extra care ful not to give away our cover from now on. Remember, Petronus, you have taken a vow of silence."
"I'm sorry, sir," he whispered. "But it is home, and I haven't seen it since I left for England."
Instead of answering Merlin held a finger to his lips and made a show of crossing himself in mock-piety.
The English countryside was drying out, slowly and gradu ally. And Corfe harbor had been
sufficiently cleared to permit about half of the legates—the ones with smaller ships—to leave. Andrea of Salesi was still in residence at the castle, as were the Byzantines, Merlin's friend Ger manicus and assorted others. Morgan and Gildas had never stopped their bickering, most recently about who was to officiate at the funerals for Leodegrance and Podarthes, which were to take place as soon as the earth was suffi ciently dry to permit the digging of proper graves.
Leonilla was of course still in residence, and her behav ior was growing more and more strange. Her mad walk abouts were becoming increasingly frequent. Delegates, members of Arthur's staff, even servants would waken in the middle of the night to find her at their bedsides, talking incoherently or going through their things. Jean-Michel and the rest of her servants tried valiantly to control her, but a lifetime of cunning had taught her to elude them easily. People found her behavior and even her mere presence more and more alarming.
But the fact that guests remained did not make them any easier to deal with. Their unwillingly prolonged residence in England was making them more and more testy, more and more impatient. They seemed to have the attitude that they should be treated with all the honor and deference they would have received in their courts at home. Eudathius was growing especially demanding and arrogant.
Nimue had to deal with it all, backed by Arthur and sup ported by Simon. But she was finding it more and more wearisome. "I wish Merlin had not gone to France," she complained to Simon, "or that he'd get back soon. I can't tell you how happily I would be relieved of these duties. If that Eudathius makes one more demand—for snow with syrup, for candied hummingbird tongues or whatever—I swear I'll toss him into the harbor."
"I wouldn't do that. It is polluted enough already. You are not cut out for diplomacy, Colin."
"You're telling me?"
"And you are starting to sound like Merlin. He grumbles so memorably."
"Don't be rude."
Simon remained calm and cool through even the worst of the crises brought on by their guests' prolonged pres ence. "They are living here on our hospitality, not by their own choice. We invited them, remember? It is incumbent on us to do all we can to keep them happy."
"You're probably right, Simon. But I say the hell with them. And it won't take much more for me to say it to their faces."
"And how much of our work would that undermine?"
"Do you know I haven't read a book in weeks? Too many duties, too many people."
Simon smiled at her. "We have had no word yet from Merlin?"
Colin shook her head. "Nothing."
"He will be home soon enough."
"If he isn't in a dungeon or a torture chamber some where." She grinned. "The French know how to treat un welcome guests."
On the day when the sun finally broke through the clouds and stayed out for the afternoon, a sentry went to Colin's office. "There are riders on the Camelot Road, sir."
"Our men?"
"They are still quite a way off. Even with Merlin's lenses we can't—"
"Keep a close eye out. If they are our knights, send out riders with wine and mead. If not . . . I don't know, kill them or ambush them or something. Check with Britomart. The last thing we need is more unwelcome visitors."
"Yes, sir."
"Let's hope they are knights from Camelot. Arthur sent word he needs two dozen of them to form the jury for Lan celot's trial."
Two hours later Sir Sagramore arrived with a contingent of knights. They had ridden long and hard, and they were in an unpleasant mood. Colin met them in the courtyard. "Welcome. You made good time getting here. We didn't think the roads would all be passable yet."
"They aren't." Sagramore snorted and looked around at the castle. "This place is hideous."
"The castle isn't half as ugly as what's gone on inside, believe me."
"Take me to Arthur. How is he, by the way? And where is Merlin? I expected him to greet us."
She explained about Merlin's trip to France. "You've heard about the two murders, I assume?"
"Two? We knew that Leodegrance was killed. Arthur wants us to form the jury for the trial. Is Lancelot still the only suspect?"
"More or less. There are other possibilities. But in Mer lin's absence I'm preparing the prosecution—as if I didn't have enough to trouble me—so we probably shouldn't dis cuss it. I wouldn't want to influence you."
"Believe me, Colin, the day a bookish boy like you can influence the Knights of the Round Table is the day hell turns to ice." He made a sour face. "Scholars. Real men act."
She couldn't resist. "You'd rather deal with an actor?"
"Don't be sarcastic." He turned his back on her and ad justed his horse's bridle. "Where are the stables?"
"I'll have one of the pages show you."
With a cohort of his knights in residence, Arthur's mood
brightened for the first time since he'd arrived at Corfe. He exercised with them, wrestled with them, ate and drank with them. "This is the proper element for a king," he told Colin. "Action, not all this damned diplomatic palaver." He wrinkled his nose. "Talk, talk, talk. The politicians never do anything, and they never shut up about it."
"They keep the world functioning, Arthur."
"Poor world."
"You are not from Mendola?"
Pierre of Autun was every inch the careworn court official—pale, craggy, angular, with steel-gray hair. He stared at Merlin and his "monks" with undisguised suspi cion. So far, Merlin had been unable to dispel it.
Merlin had introduced himself as Anselm of York, and no one had questioned his identity. He smiled like—he hoped—a benevolent abbot. "No. England, England. As I told you. We are from an abbey founded by Bishop Gildas in Londinium, or London, as the British are beginning to call it. We came originally from an abbey in Brittany and moved to England at Gildas's behest."
"Then what are you doing here?" Pierre scowled.
Merlin was the soul of clerical patience. "As I explained, Bishop Gildas gave us permission to return to the Conti nent, to make a pilgrimage to the shrine of St. James, at Compostela." He added helpfully, "It is just across the Pyrenees from here. There is a pass through the mountains that we—"
"I am quite familiar with Compostela," Pierre grumbled. "It is in Spain. Why are you in France?"
"We had planned to make landfall on the south coast of Spain. But the storm—"
"I see. Tell me something."
"Anything you need to know." He radiated goodwill and friendliness. "Only ask."
"A nephew of mine is in service at the court of King Ar thur. Do you know him, by chance?"
"A nephew?" Merlin feigned ignorance. "What would his name be? There are so many Frenchmen at Arthur's court. I myself prefer to remain at the abbey in Londinium, but—"
"Petronus. He is a boy of about fourteen."
"Petronus?" Merlin played mock-surprise perfectly. "Why, I know him very well. He is one of our novices. He is traveling in our group, in fact."
"I see. Has he taken his vows yet?"
"Yes. Petronus is a splendid young man. He—"
"That is too bad. I would like to interview him, but if he is already pledged to a life of silence . . ." He left the thought unfinished. "Still, I think I would enjoy seeing him. Having one of my relatives silent will be more pleasant than you can imagine. We have scouts checking the condi tion of the mountain pass even as we speak. It is prone to flash floods. A great many people make the pilgrimage to Compostela, and most of them want to stay here with us before crossing the mountains. We have to turn most of them away. But you and your party may stay until out scouts return."
"Thank you very much. We—"
"You would be surprised at the number of travelers who make this journey, and as I said, they all seem to want to shelter here. We send most of them to inns. But of course, the clergy . . ." He waved a hand vaguely instead of finish ing his sentence. "I'll have one of the servants show you to your rooms."
"We could not be more appreciati
ve, believe me. But if I might ask one further indulgence, a small one."
Pierre turned suspicious again instantly. "Yes?"
"Petronus has a friend here. Or rather, a mentor. A jew eler named Reynaud de Beliveau. He would like to see the man once again. Might that be possible?"
"On theory, yes, of course." Pierre looked concerned. "But you will have to do it quickly. Reynaud is quite old, and I fear he is not in the best of health."
"I see. When may we see him, then?"
"Soon. Tomorrow. You will be accompanying Pet ronus?"
The Lancelot Murders Page 26