by Jay Ruud
“My errand needs no justification from you, Master Kempe,” I called back. “You lowly, churlish villain. I’m on a mission from the queen. Can’t you tell by the sanctified glow about my person?”
“No, it was obscured by the dullness of your stupid face. Get along then, I’ve got work to do.”
“When did you ever do any work? Lying about all day in the guard towers napping?”
“Shows how much you know, Gildas my lad. The king’s got me putting on extra guards for the big Pentecost induction. There’ll be a crowd here and that’s for sure. Not only all the knights. Petty kings and such like. I understand Duke Hoel is coming over from Brittany with a small retinue. And old Mark himself from your own neck of the woods. Be wearing black he will, I suppose, but he’s agreed to come on Arthur’s invite. This double-induction of Perceval and Mordred looks to be the biggest Feast Day in years.”
“Duke Hoel is coming here? And King Mark?” That was pretty convenient. If I could get Merlin up and mobile, we could talk to Mark and maybe rule him out as a suspect right away. As for the duke, maybe I could ingratiate myself with him while he was here, if we could get to him and let him know we were on the case, looking to exonerate his older daughter. “That’s great news,” I muttered thoughtfully.
“What? You gonna ask them for a keepsake, are you? Move along, Gildas, your presence is distracting me from important things!”
“I’m off then,” I called back as I moved at a quick walk onto the drawbridge. “I’ll be back before nightfall.”
“Unfortunately…” came the answering cry from the barbican.
Once across the moat I turned left, heading north. South of Camelot was the convent and then the capital city of Caerleon. Northward were the king’s fields, the crops just starting to mature, and beyond those the woods that surrounded Lady Lake, on which, among other things, lay the realm of the mysterious Lady of the Lake and her companions, including, of course, Merlin’s beloved Nimue and her consort Sir Florent. I plunged into the woods and, in a furlong’s way, waded across the cool running brook whose water came halfway up my shins. I scrambled up the grassy bank on the other side of the brook and came to the vast white and brown wall of limestone and dolomite rock perforated with shallow caves formed by the stream and the lake waters. I knew which one of these was Merlin’s, and I expected to see a red glow coming from the mouth of his cave, for though it was a warm spring day the cave was certainly chilly and damp. But there was no glow. That could only mean that he was in the deepest of melancholies, lying on his bed and dead to the world. With some reluctance I tiptoed to the cave mouth and gingerly poked my head in.
“White or black?” boomed the necromancer’s voice as he looked up at me from his chessboard.
***
“Wha…? But…how’d you know I was coming?”
Merlin looked at me askance through the untamed bushes of his eyebrows as he sat cross legged on his small wooden chair. “Gildas, you’re joking, right? Do you really imagine that you move through the woods with the grace and silence of a gazelle? I heard you a furlong off. Maybe if you’d stop cursing when you waded through the cold water you might be a little more stealthy.”
“Well, all right, but how did you know it was me?” I challenged him.
The old mage shrugged. “Who else?”
“No one from the lady’s palace ever visits?”
“If that’s your subtle way of asking whether the lady Nimue deigns to drop in, the answer is no. I haven’t seen the nymph since she rode off with Sir Florent at their glorious nuptials. Not that I’d have wanted to see her, you understand. Not her or anybody else,” he finished meaningfully, with a glare in my direction.
“As I deduced myself,’ I nodded back to him, pulling his other chair up to the chessboard. I noticed that his small fireplace was cold, and appeared to have been so for some time. But the cave was not completely frigid, since Merlin had long ago lined the walls with tapestries, mainly of knights fighting mythological beasts like dragons and basilisks. The straw bed against the wall was rumpled and unmade, and probably still warm. I assumed he had not been out of it long, since a few of the bound volumes from his bed’s head lay open on the pallet as if he’d been perusing them shortly before I arrived. “Been up long?” I asked innocently.
“Not long,” Merlin admitted. “The dark cloud has been hovering over me for weeks. Getting out of bed has, frankly, been a struggle I was not able to face. But you are here, and have, I suppose, some request from the queen to make of me. But first, more importantly, I’m asking you: white or black?”
“Ach, here, give me black. I’ll give that a try for a change.”
The old man raised his considerable eyebrows. “Overconfident, are we? Think because I’ve been a vegetable for two months that my mind’s gone sluggish? Fine, boy, I’ll take white and we’ll see what you learn from it. So, pawn to king four. Tell me what the queen wants this time.”
“Well,” I answered, turning toward the board to answer his first move, “why do you think I have to be here on the queen’s business? Pawn to queen’s bishop four.”
Merlin scoffed. “Why else would you be here? You didn’t come on your own account. Oh, you probably wanted to, but you’d have kept away until you were sure I wanted company. King’s knight to king’s bishop three. The queen, of course, has no such compunction, or consideration, when it comes to the likes of you and me—the son of a Cornish blacksmith and the bastard son of a nun and an incubus.”
I gave a short guffaw at his characterization of himself. I knew the incubus story as well as anybody else, but I also knew that Merlin really assumed simply that his mother had refused to identify his father, who had visited her secretly in her convent. But I corrected him regarding myself: “You know that my father is an armor-maker, old man, not a simple blacksmith. Pawn to queen three.”
“An armor maker is just another name for a blacksmith who works for rich people. Queen’s bishop to queen’s knight five. So tell me what your queen wants of her devoted servant this time. How are the court magician and his trusty sidekick expected to save Camelot from today’s disaster?”
“Look I just want to know, Merlin, if you are feeling up to the challenge of taking on this new assignment with me. Queen’s bishop to queen two.”
“Up to the…why you runt of a peasecod litter, the day I’m not able to keep up with you…” Yes, I knew that would get him. “Tell me what’s aggravating the queen’s nerves and I’ll see if I’m interested. Oh, and bishop takes bishop,” he cried triumphantly.
“Well, queen takes bishop, then,” I replied. “And all right, if you’re going to insist, I’ll tell you. First…you’ve heard about Sir Tristram, I take it?”
“Heard about Sir Tristram? About as much as I’ve heard about the boils on your mother’s backside, boy. How could I have heard anything about anything when I’ve been holed up in this cave for the seven ages of man? Pawn to queen’s bishop four.”
“No, sorry, of course not,” I swallowed a smile. “Umm…queen to queen’s knight five.” I used to be apprehensive about the old man’s tirades, but now that I knew him well I was more amused by them. But I knew he was not going to react well to the news I was about to give him. “Well, this is difficult to say…”
“Why? You’re going to say it in Cornish? Out with it, boy, I’m not one of your dainty ladies-in-waiting that can’t bear to hear about your great uncle stubbing his toe on a wine barrel.”
“Tristram is dead.”
“God’s eyelashes, Gildas,” he exploded. “Why didn’t you say so? How did this happen?”
I sighed. “He was pierced by a poisoned spear in Brittany. It’s a long story.”
Merlin shrugged. “I’ve been here for months with no one to talk to. I have time for a long story. And as for your queen…” I steeled myself, anticipating a harangue about the moral and ethical qua
lities of Guinevere. “She looks like she could be vulnerable there,” his eyes glanced down at the chessboard. “I’m going to castle here,” and he moved his king to his right, jumping his rook over it.
“Queen takes king’s pawn,” I countered, and then launched into an account of what Sir Dinadan had told us in the king’s council, with all the details I could remember, going over the battle with the Norsemen and the wounding in the skirmish, the slow decline from the poison, the request to Kaherdin to bring back La Belle Isolde, Isolde of the White Hands’ heartless lie concerning the black sails, Tristram’s death, Isolde’s heartbreak and subsequent demise.
Merlin listened carefully to the entire account. Then he said thoughtfully, “Pawn to queen four.”
I blinked. “That’s all you have to say? Pawn takes queen’s pawn.”
“I’m thinking, you Cornish dolt. If I were inclined to wagering, I’d say the odds were fairly high that King Mark had a hand in Tristram’s untimely end. He had the motive. He definitely had the means—his royal power could reach out to any place he desired. Rook to king one,” he said. “Now your queen is really in trouble. Speaking of which, why does this so trouble Guinevere? What concern is it of hers if some knight and his tart die in a foreign land?”
“Queen to queen’s bishop three,” I retreated. “You know it’s far more complex than that. Tristram is a knight of the Round Table. Brittany is not a foreign land, but a part of Arthur’s realm. King Mark is Arthur’s vassal. As is, for that matter, Duke Hoel. Hoel is the father of Isolde of the White Hands.”
“And the father, as well, of the lady Rosemounde, the queen’s favorite lady in waiting and your own hopeless love.” Why did everybody think my love for her was hopeless? This was becoming annoying. But Merlin continued, “So in fact it is for Rosemounde that you want to undergo this investigation, because the way the story is circulating her sister comes across as the guilty party because of her cruel comments. Bah, sentimental drivel. King’s knight to queen four, taking pawn,” he said.
“Queen takes bishop’s pawn,” I said. “So what are you saying? Isolde of Brittany is not responsible? Because that’s what the queen—and Rosemounde—want to establish, if you’re willing to take it on. As for King Mark, I wish everyone wouldn’t keep jumping to conclusions about him. How could he have had anything to do with it? He was in Cornwall. Tristram and Isolde were in Brittany, dying of broken hearts.”
Merlin snorted. “No, no, no,” he shook his head. “One thing I’ve learned in my endless years on this earth: No one actually dies of a broken heart. Trust me. I’ve been lying on that bed for two months trying my best. It just doesn’t happen. Look, Gildas, when Nimue went off with Florent my own heart was torn from me. No physical pain could possibly equal the agony I suffered in that time. Certainly I wished I was dead. I waited. If it were possible to die of grief, I would have done so long ago. Sure, I could have jumped into Lady Lake and drowned myself, but the cause of my death would have been the water in my lungs, not the grief in my heart. Tristram died of poison from his wound. La Belle Isolde? She may have died there, but somebody helped her along. Queen’s knight to queen’s rook three,” Merlin answered.
“So Isolde of the White Hands is not to blame?”
“Oh, she is very much to blame for her hardness of heart. But her words did not kill anyone. Was she somehow behind the poison that killed Tristram? That we cannot yet say. The spearing could have been inflicted by one of the Norsemen, though the poison suggests it may have been planned earlier and one of the Breton party inflicted the wound unnoticed in the battle. And as for La Belle Isolde—someone killed her, you can bet on that. And the manner of her death also suggests poison, does it not? The same person may have been behind both murders.”
“Murders? So now you are certain these were murders? Queen to queen’s bishop one,” I countered. “But if you really think King Mark may be behind this, I still don’t see how. Or why. If he wanted the two of them dead, he could have done it earlier, when they were carrying on in his own court.”
“Queen’s bishop to king’s bishop four,” Merlin responded. “Your loyalty to your native king is touching, I’m sure, but it may be misplaced. The first question you have to ask about this is, who hated the two of them enough to want them dead? Mark had the greatest motive. He was cuckolded by his nephew, and forced the culprit from his court. Living in Brittany, Tristram may have been out of sight, out of mind. But when he sent for his lover, La Belle Isolde apparently did not hesitate to leave her husband and sail across the channel to come to the aid of her lover. That may have been the final straw for Mark. It would have been so for many men. As for Tristram’s wife, her motive was equally strong. Her husband was in love with another woman, and though she spent every day by his sickbed, he only wanted to see the rival that bore her name. Isolde of the White Hands was bitter enough to lie about the sails. Was she bitter enough to arrange her husband’s death? Or that of his lover?”
“I know there was motive enough between the two of them,” I countered. “But Tristram was wounded with the poison spear before he sent for Isolde, so the jealousy that you see flaring up as a result of that couldn’t have been behind the poisoned weapon. And La Belle Isolde had just arrived. When would the wife have had time to poison her? Queen to queen two.”
“You keep moving her around and not doing anything with her!” He said of my queen. Then, looking thoughtful he went on, “That might in fact have been Tristram’s great error. His wife was there, he paraded her around for the look of the thing, but like you he did nothing with her. It was all for show. An unpleasant life she must have had. Anyway, if Sir Dinadan is still here, I’d like to talk to him about some details. Exactly how long had La Belle Isolde been in Brittany before she saw Tristram? Who had the opportunity to poison her? Where exactly were Tristram’s wounds—was he struck from before or behind? What was his relationship with Kaherdin like? If Tristram was treating his sister with disrespect, then would he not also have a motive for murder? Queen’s knight to queen’s knight five,” he said.
“Dinadan’s still here. Everybody will be in Camelot over the next few days. It’s nearly Pentecost, and Perceval and Mordred are due to be inducted into the fellowship of the Round Table. Pawn to king four,” I tried.
“Bold move,” he said sarcastically. “Bishop takes king’s pawn. So I suppose that means we can’t leave until after Sunday.”
“Leave? What do you mean? Oh, and pawn takes bishop,” I said triumphantly.
“Rook to king five, takes pawn,” was Merlin’s comeback. “And, by the way, check. Of course we’re leaving. If we’re really going to find out who is behind these killings, we’re going to have to go to where they happened. We’ll need to talk to the wife and to Kaherdin, and to the men who were along on that skirmish with the Norsemen. We’ll certainly want to talk to this Master what’s-its-name, Oswald. Can’t do that from here, boy.”
“Oh, guess I didn’t really notice that rook there,” I said. “Uh…king’s bishop to king two. So you don’t mind picking up and taking a ship for Brittany just like that?”
“Boy, I’ve been here in this cave for months. It’s time I did something. And now that I’ve thought about it, I really want to find out who did this. But I’ll tell you from the start, if it proves to be your Cornish king or the lady Rosemounde’s Breton sister, that’s what I shall report to the world. Or at least, to anybody who’ll listen to me. I don’t care what your queen says about it. Rook to king five,” he said.
“Attacking my queen. I mean, on the chess board. But I don’t get it. The queen can just take the rook.” Then I looked again. “And so you move the knight and check my king and I lose the queen. Okay, I’m not falling for that one. Queen to queen’s bishop one.”
“Knight to king’s bishop five,” he said.
“Whatever you find,” I assured him now, “I give you my word the queen will not be disple
ased. She only wants to get to the truth.” Maybe a little white lie on my part. What she really wanted, as far as I could tell, was to squelch the gossip regarding nobles related to her court. And I can’t say that wasn’t at least what I most hoped would happen. But I had to agree with Merlin, that if truth were not the goal, then the task would not be worth doing. We weren’t going to go all the way to Brittany to pretend we agreed with a conclusion already drawn in the councils of Camelot. “King to king’s bishop one.”
“Knight to king two, takes bishop,” he said. “We’re going to need to start right away to make arrangements for the trip. The queen is paying for our transport, no doubt. It’s been some time since I’ve been on a ship. I had pretty good sea legs at one time, as I recall,” and with that he got up from the chair and did a few squats, limbering up his legs, before he seemed to pull something in his knee and sat back down again a little gingerly.
“King takes knight,” I said, though I could feel the end was coming. “One more thing that I forgot, Merlin: King Mark is coming to the Pentecost feast to see the knighting ceremony. It’s the perfect time to talk to him.”
“Hmm. Yes, if he’ll deign to talk with the likes of us. I suppose with Guinevere insisting upon it, he’ll give us an audience. Whether we can believe anything he says without some kind of substantiation, I’m not sure. Rook to king five. Check again.” With that Merlin got up again, looking anxious to be off somewhere, and prodded me, “Come on now! We need to strike while the iron’s hot. Let’s go see Sir Dinadan right now.”
“Wait a minute, finish the game will you? King to king’s bishop three. Want to lose that rook?”
“Oh for heaven’s sake. Queen to queen six. Checkmate. Now let’s go.”
Chapter Four
The Table Round
“I would rather have my daughter married to a knight of the Table Round than a petty knight or duke, for all their wealth,” Duke Hoel was saying. “Of course my Isolde had her suitors from among the noblest families in Brittany, but when the chance came to marry her to one of King Arthur’s three greatest knights, I never hesitated. These are men of great worship,” he nodded to the scores of knights milling about in the great cathedral of Caerleon in preparation for the Whitsunday induction. “Any father would be mad to prefer wealth over honor. Isolde had enough wealth. What need had she of a little more land or another small castle when her marriage could bring her honor by association with the knights of Camelot?”