Arthur spoke to her in as soothing a tone as he could manage, given what was happening. Nimue joined him. With luck, one or both of them would find the right thing to say to calm her insane determination to end her life.
Leonilla was distracted by their talking. A gust of wind knocked her off balance. Just as she started to fall Arthur caught her by the arm and pulled her inside.
Guards carried her to the bed. She was oddly docile. She whispered softly, "Jean-Michel."
Arthur gave Captain Dalley orders for her to be closely guarded round the clock. "The last thing we want is another dead French royal." Then, slowly, the crowd dispersed back to the Great Hall.
But the incident had been too disruptive, too upsetting. After a brief conference with Nimue, Arthur announced that the trial would remain in recess until noon the follow ing day.
Nimue remained restless all day long. That night she had trouble sleeping. Leonilla's increasing madness aside, she was concerned about Merlin, from whom no further word had been received. When, very late, the moon rose and shone into her eyes, she rolled onto her side and finally fell asleep.
Then, just before dawn, as the sky was beginning to lighten, she was wakened by the sound of someone in her room. Thinking it was an assassin, she gasped loudly and held her pillow in front of herself. But when she heard a familiar laugh in the shadows, she knew it was Merlin.
"What on earth are you doing here? Where have you been all this time?"
"Our channel crossing was slow—there were heavy winds."
"And what did you learn in France?"
Instead of answering he found a stool and asked her, "What has been happening here?"
She brought him up to date on everything: the trial, the knights anxious for action, the imprisonment of JeanMichel per Merlin's orders. "Oh, and Leonilla is becoming more and more unhinged. When she found out we had ar rested him, she tried to kill herself."
After a long moment's pause, Merlin chuckled and said, "Excellent."
Nimue sat up. "Do you mean to say you've solved the mystery?"
"I believe so, yes."
"Then tell me who killed Leodegrance and the others."
"In time, Nimue."
"Was it Jean-Michel? I half-suspected him."
"Jean-Michel," Merlin told her slowly and carefully, in precise measured tones, "is dead."
"Dead? But—"
"He is dead. I am telling you so. By mid-morning, the entire castle will know."
"Merlin, what on earth are you up to?"
"After breakfast we will have to confer with Arthur about what to do with the body. I think an unmarked grave would be appropriate. Do you agree?"
"For god's sake, Merlin, tell me what you found out. Who did these crimes?"
He buried his face in his hands. "I am afraid there is no one we can hold accountable."
"But—"
"Please, Nimue, I have not had any rest. I must go to my room and get at least a few hours' sleep. Things will become clear soon enough. Meet me in the refectory after break fast."
By sunup the entire castle was buzzing with the news that the young Frenchman had died in his prison cell. One ru mor held that some of Arthur's knights, anxious for some action, had forced their way into his dungeon and slaugh tered him. Another version held that he had wrapped his chains around his throat and suffocated himself. Still again, there was a contention that some unknown assailant had somehow gained entry to his cell and done him in. The only thing everyone seemed to agree on was that he had died the previous day, under the noses of the guards. So, naturally, more theories sprang up, implicating them.
At breakfast no one talked about anything else. The dip lomatic grapevine, whch had been operating more or less openly since the conference began, quivered and vibrated with the news. Someone claimed to have seen the ghost of Leodegrance stalking the halls of the Spider's House, so naturally he must have been killed somehow by JeanMichel, who he now killed in turn.
As the morning passed, the theories grew more and more wild and improbable. Jean-Michel had been in league with the Byzantines, who murdered him to keep him silent. Suspicion even fell briefly on Germanicus, even though no one could suggest a possible reason why he of all people should have killed anyone; purportedly he had brought an array of poisonous spiders with him from Egypt and used one of them to do the deed.
Throughout breakfast Arthur and Britomart kept silent about it all. When they were questioned by this knight or that delegate, they claimed to know no more than anyone else and fell silent. They were unwilling even to confirm that the young man was dead.
Then, near the end of the meal, Merlin walked unassum ingly into the hall and took his seat at the head table, beside Arthur. And he was immediately surrounded by the curious and plied with questions about Jean-Michel's death. But he ate a small breakfast and did his best to ignore it all. The only thing he was willing to say was that he had arrived back at Corfe only that morning; the lowest scullery maid must know more than he did.
Of all the castle's residents, only the French remained out of the buzz, presumably stunned by the death of still another of their number. Petronilla took a light breakfast alone in a far corner of the refectory, then left without talk ing to anyone. Neither Guenevere nor Leonilla appeared; they sent servants to fetch their breakfasts. The lesser French functionaries and the servants all maintained a rev erential silence even though, to appearances at least, none of them had liked Jean-Michel much.
All day long the rumors circulated, each wilder and more unlikely than the one before. There were alleged conspira cies involving the Pope and Bishop Gildas, secret agents from China, and stories even more preposterous. Merlin went about his business, serenely ignoring it all. But he appeared pleased; about what, no one could say.
Just after the noonday meal Nimue confronted him. "I want to know what's going on."
He smiled. "I've had an idea about lens-grinding. If the technique I have in mind works properly, I should be able to make my viewing lenses even more powerful."
"That's not what I mean, and you know it perfectly well. What happened to Jean-Michel? Why all the secrecy about his death?"
"Honestly, Colin. One of the keys to wisdom is knowing where to direct your curiosity."
"There are times, Merlin, when I believe you became a state minister because it increases your opportunities to annoy everyone."
"You are not the first one to say so. But believe me, it is not true. What I do, I do for reasons that are sound, not frivolous—at least in my mind. Word of the poor boy's death has stirred up quite a little storm."
"And this storm is what you want?"
"Think. If you were the killer, and if you had been op erating undetected all this time, how would you react to the presence of another killer? Something is bound to happen."
"If I were the killer, and if someone else was arrested for my crimes and then died—or was executed—I would hardly be able to contain my glee."
"That would depend on your motives for the killings, would it not? Besides, what makes you so certain there is only one killer? Can you think of any single individual who had motives for murdering all three—Leodegrance, Po darthes and Marthe?"
She was deflated. "No, I suppose not. But even so—"
"And yet I am fairly certain there was only one killer. And Jean-Michel's death may be the key to proving it."
"I could wish you didn't talk in riddles all the time."
He leaned back and stretched out. "The human race is a riddle. Humanity's willful evil is a riddle, to which I fear there is no solution. What do you think about life after death?"
The question caught her off guard. "I beg your pardon? What I think is that you're trying to change the subject."
"Not at all. Arthur believes in it. Do you?"
"You know the answer to that perfectly well."
"Do I?" He scratched his nose casually. "All of our sus pects—everyone who might conceivably have done the killings—adheres to
a religion that holds that death is not the end but the beginning. Morgan and her people have their Hall of Heroes rotating eternally at the north pole of the sky. The Christians have their heaven."
"Yes? Will you get to the point?"
"I think it is time to put the strength of their beliefs to the test. How would you like to become someone else?"
"I already have."
"How would you like to stop being Colin, then?"
"You've always encouraged this disguise. What are you suggesting?"
"Temporarily. For a short time."
"So help me, Merlin, if you don't get to the point, I'll tie your beard in knots and hang you from the top of Wizard's Tower."
"We are in the wrong castle for that."
"Even so. Tell me what you have in mind."
He rubbed temple thoughtfully. "Very well. But you must promise me you will not repeat this to anyone."
"What did you say? You want me to what?"
"It is a simple enough concept, Morgan. What do you not understand?"
The two of them were conferring in her chamber. Merlin had insisted she order everyone else away, so as to make sure their conversation was private. "Damn the fool who built this castle without proper doors."
Morgan was deeply suspicious but did as he requested. But she had her guard up. "I am the high priestess of En gland, as you know perfectly well. Our traditions are under attack by these upstarts—who you encourage. And now you want me to do this?"
"Relax, Morgan." He chuckled softly to himself. "It is not as if I were asking you to commit blasphemy of any sort."
"You and I have never been friends, Merlin; never even liked one another. You are much too committed to what you call rationality—as if anything human might be ra tional. If you are asking me to do this, now, you must have some irreligious motive. I will never participate in such a thing."
He folded his hands serenely. "Arthur wants it."
"You've had my brother in the palm of your hand for years."
"Even so. He is the king. His wish is your command, or should be. It is the will of the gods that he be king—that he should rule and we should follow. You said so yourself, at his coronation."
"If you think it behooves us to follow him," she smirked, "why do you lead him by the nose so blatantly?"
"Really, Morgan. No one is asking you to do a thing that might weaken your position as high priestess or that might cast any kind of doubt on your gods and goddesses."
Morgan was thinking. Merlin could almost see the wheels turning in her head. After a long moment she leaned back in her chair, folded her arms and smiled at him. "And suppose the gods tell me not to help you with this?"
It was the moment he had been waiting for. "How could they? They must know what else I have in mind."
She laughed at him. "And what would that be?"
Slowly, calmly, Merlin told her, "You want the Chris tians to make no inroads here. Presumably that is the will of your gods also."
"Our gods," she corrected him.
"Yes, of course. And what would please our gods in that respect?"
Still smirking at him she said, "I'm thirsty. Let me call a servant and have him bring us wine."
"I am not at all thirsty, myself. Answer my question."
She had been about to clap her hands to summon some
one; she stopped and turned to face Merlin directly. "I want the Christians out of England. No bishops, no popes must impinge on the time-honored ways."
Merlin exhaled slowly. "Quite frankly, Morgan, I am not certain that can be done. You know perfectly well that most of Western Europe has been Christianized."
"Does that mean we must be, too?"
"Of course not. But what you are suggesting could eas ily have unfortunate consequences. If the Pope—I keep forgetting his name—"
"Honorius," she prompted.
"Yes. If Honorius were to plead for support from any of the monarchs . . . it might even lead to war. And we would almost certainly lose. Where would the time-honored ways be then? Do you want to see Christianity imposed on us at sword point?"
She froze momentarily. "Point taken. But this parvenu, Gildas—"
"Yes?"
"Confine him. Keep him here, or at Camelot. Give him no scope to spread his—let us be generous and not call it a superstition."
"Indeed, let us not. And if I agree to this?"
"Surely you mean if Arthur agrees."
He was beginning to feel impatient, "Yes, of course. If Arthur agrees to this . . . ?"
"Then I will do what you want tonight."
"Done."
Finally Morgan called a servant and had him bring wine. She and Merlin toasted their bargain. When she had fin ished her second cup she grinned at him. "Good heavens, I do enjoy being high priestess. But now you must tell me what you want me to say and do."
Merlin was feeling smug, too. "It will take place in pri vate, so there is very little to rehearse. But we must spread the word about what you are supposedly doing. Everyone in the Spider's House must know."
"What?" Arthur glared. "You promised her what?"
Merlin's eyes twinkled. "Relax, Arthur. I need her help tonight. That was the only way to get it."
"You had no authority to promise her such a thing,"
"Do you think I don't know that? Even she knows it, but I managed to persuade her to overlook it."
"Honestly, Merlin." The king sighed, exasperated.
"You keep saying you want the assassin exposed. We have suspects, we have motives, but no concrete evidence. This has an excellent chance of providing it."
"You said that about your holiday in France."
"Holiday? You call traipsing around the Pyrenees in a rain storm a holiday? Besides, I got some valuable information."
"Why don't you do this yourself? Why drag Morgan into it?" The king paced; Merlin followed him, wishing he would slow down.
"That is simple." He stopped following Arthur and sat in a nearby chair. "I don't want anything convincing people I am a wizard or that I traffic in the supernatural. I've spent a lifetime attempting to build a reputation as a man of reason. Morgan peddles her mumbo-jumbo everywhere she goes. She is the logical choice."
Arthur stood face-to-face with him. "But will she do it when she finds out I have no intention of confining Gildas? The man is a tiresome nag, granted. A downright bore. Do you know he tried to tell me drinking is wrong? Of course, you always tell me the same thing, but . . . But if Morgan thinks I might be willing to confine someone simply be cause he believes in a different pack of sins than she does, she hasn't been paying attention."
"Your England is not hers, Arthur. But all you have to do is not tell her so, and there will be peace."
He narrowed his eyes. "When she sees Gildas moving freely about the country, she just might guess."
"That will take months. By then we will have resolved this matter. Arthur, this will work."
"And what makes you so certain Jean-Michel didn't do the killings?"
"Well, primarily it is the fact that he had no conceivable motive. Leodegrance was the source of his 'lover's' power, so why kill him? And why would he kill Podarthes or Marthe at all? Besides, Beliveau told me he stole those knives but that it seemed out of character for him. Have you ever heard of a gigolo with enterprise?"
"Point taken. But the mere fact that we can't think of a motive for him doesn't mean he didn't have one."
"Arthur, this will work. Quite honestly, if it does not, I have no idea what will."
All day more and more rumors, carefully planted, circulated through the castle. Something was afoot. Morgan le Fay, High Priestess of England, was to conduct a séance that night, they said. She was to attempt to conjure up the ghost of Jean-Michel, the gossip claimed. When anyone asked Morgan, Merlin or Arthur, the rumors were denied. Yet they would not die; they gained more and more circulation.
At midnight the three of them, along with Britomart and Simon of York, gathered at the
young man's room. They were attended by a dozen servants with candles and another dozen boys carrying incense burners. Sweet smoke filled the air. On a cue from Morgan the incense boys began to chant a Celtic hymn to the dead.
More and more curious bystanders gathered in the hall outside the room. Necks craned; noses intruded. Arthur summoned guards to keep them at a distance.
The Lancelot Murders Page 29