The Excalibur Murders

by J. M. C. Blair

  Merlin leaned close to him and whispered dramatically, “Just between us, I am.”

  “No!”

  “I swear it.”

  “Well, this one’s green.”

  “So you said.”

  “I think it’s after Arthur.”

  “Who isn’t?”

  This seemed to come as a new thought. Pellenore scratched his head and started off down the corridor.

  “Are you coming to council?” Merlin called after him.

  Pellenore looked back over his shoulder and shrugged an exaggerated shrug. “Keep an eye out for my dragon, will you?”

  “I will.”

  “You’ll know it-it’s green.”

  Then he was gone. Merlin decided to walk for a few more minutes; the day and the situation called for thought, and he might be the only one doing it.

  By the time Merlin reached the Great Hall, many of the others were already there. Pellenore had gotten there ahead of him and was agitatedly going from one group of people to the next, warning them about dragons, griffins and rogue unicorns. Ganelin and Borolet were playing hosts for their king, who hadn’t yet put in an appearance. Sagramore, a minor lord, was complaining loudly about the heavy burden of his yearly tribute to Arthur. And everyone, it seemed, was buzzing about the reason for the council.

  The hall itself was at the heart of the castle keep, the most impregnable part of Camelot. It was built of the largest, heaviest stones, and it was always claimed that not even the largest battering ram could hope to penetrate them. This struck Merlin as problematic; the place was full of drafts.

  The room was circular as was the great council table at its center. Though to be precise it was not a table but a series of connecting tables, each an arc. Arthur had adopted it so that everyone at council would feel equal with all the others, but of course, given the court’s nature, squabbles erupted all the time anyway. It seated thirty-seven people; at larger council meetings some people had to stand or sit behind the others, and this caused fights as well.

  Today the Great Hall was ablaze with torchlight; dozens of torches burned in sconces along the walls and in tall holders around the table. Drafts made them flicker and dance. A small band of musicians played military music off in a spot along the northeast wall. Servants passed through the hall with trays of fruit, cheese, bread. Others carried drinks-wine, beer, mead-for the lords and knights. And everyone seemed to be in a celebratory mood. The hall, it seemed to Merlin, had not seen such merry activity in a long time.

  There were the petty kings, now vassals of Arthur, attended by their retinues. The most important of them was Mark of Cornwall, whose tin mines Arthur had taken by main force and who was now his chief military advisor. There was Sagramore from Kent, Bialich from Ireland and assorted others. And there were knights-Dinadan, Gawain, Petrilock, Bors and dozens more-most of them accompanied by their squires.

  They never stopped bickering, jockeying for position in the court hierarchy, even starting minor wars among themselves. All but old Pellenore, who was the only one of them who had anything like a sense of humor about it all, squirrelly as he was. Merlin had seen the court of the Byzantine emperor Justinian, and courtiers there never ceased their jockeying and backstabbing, but at least they did it with a measure of subtlety. At Camelot, on the other hand, subtlety was all but unknown.

  Everyone was drinking. Cups were huge; it wasn’t hard to see most of the assembled nobles were already tipsy, not to say drunk.

  Merlin had talked to Arthur time and again about this. No respectable court would try to conduct business this way, especially when there might be important decisions to be made. Camelot was gossiped about and laughed at all across Europe.

  Arthur’s response, as usual, was to call him a spoilsport. “They say the court of Alexander the Great was like this. You told me so yourself, when I was a boy and you were my tutor. Wine and beer everywhere. And Alexander conquered the world.”

  Merlin was sanguine. “Alexander didn’t have Justinian and the Byzantines to deal with. Arthur, your court is an embarrassment.”

  “Nonsense.”

  Other times he tried a more direct approach. “Arthur, England is being held together with baling wire. Look at all the bickering, the feuds, the petty wars.You’ve unified the country, but it could come unraveled anytime. Alexander’s empire splintered when he died. Letting these people get drunk every time they’re together can only speed that here, too.”

  “Don’t be such a pessimist, Merlin.” The king clearly didn’t want to hear this. “A unified England benefits everyone. It makes us all stronger, militarily, culturally, in so many ways. No one would be foolish enough to upset that. We are adults, here, after all.”

  “When have you ever known anyone to place the higher good above his own self-interest, Arthur?”

  But the king wasn’t to be moved. “It’s only drinking, Merlin. We’re only having fun. What’s the point of being a king or even a knight if you can’t have a little fun now and then?”

  “You call self-destructiveness fun?”

  “Merlin, let it go.” And that was that. As often as Merlin had broached the subject Arthur ignored him.

  At one side of the Great Hall, watching the others but neither dunking nor socializing with them, stood Britomart, the only female knight at Camelot. Her mere presence sent most of the men into shivers of anger and jealousy for several reasons, not least because she was a better knight than most of them. Merlin adored her.

  He made his way through the throng and joined her. “Hello, Brit. It looks like a particularly big court today.”

  She smiled at him. “Wonderful. More councilors means more fights. Have you heard the news?”

  “I live in a tower. I never hear anything.”

  “Don’t be absurd, Merlin. Apparently Percival has found this stone everyone’s been questing after. Arthur’s going to make a surprise announcement.”

  It caught him off guard. “How did you know?”

  “Everyone does. Arthur told Mark, and you know him. He gossips like somebody’s grandmother.”

  “That is a disrespectful way to talk about your commander. ”

  “It’s true and you know it. The news has been spreading like a fire in a hayloft.”

  “I hope everyone has sense enough to act astonished when Arthur springs it on them.”

  “I doubt he’ll know the difference.” She nodded toward the main doorway. “Look.”

  Arthur was there, and his squires Ganelin and Borolet were at his side. He was carrying the largest goblet Merlin had ever seen, and drinking freely. Apparently this was a day for celebration. Merlin realized that the king must have started to drink as soon as he left the tower; he was already unsteady on his feet.

  Britomart was wry. “Should we go and pay our respects? ”

  “Don’t be catty, Brit.”

  Suddenly, seemingly from nowhere, Mark of Cornwall was beside them.

  Mark was the youngest of Arthur’s close councilors. He was short, broadly built and had thick black hair; he wore a mustache but, unlike most of the knights and kings, no beard. Merlin often wondered about Arthur’s wisdom in making someone he’d conquered his chief military advisor, but as usual the king wasn’t to be moved. “I’ve conquered everyone in England,” he would always respond. “So who does that leave?”

  Mark, like nearly everyone, had been drinking. He put an arm around Merlin then tried to kiss Britomart. She pulled away.

  “You two are looking even more serious than usual. This is a day for feasting.”

  Brit looked at the king, not at Mark. “Shouldn’t you be off refining tin for England?”

  “The mines are in good hands. Arthur wanted me to be here.”

  “The king’s wisdom,” she said wryly.

  “Do you both know why he convened this council today?”

  Merlin decided to speak up before Brit could needle him more. “We do. Arthur wants it to be a surprise. I hope you’ve cautioned everyo
ne to act like it is one.”

  “Don’t give it a thought, Merlin.” He turned to Britomart. “And you declined when Arthur asked you to search for the stone.”

  “I did. And I’d decline again.”

  “Lèse majesté.”

  “Common sense. Hunting all over the British Isles for a rock…” She made a sour face to show what she thought of the idea.

  “Finding the stone is a great triumph for all of us, Brit.” He took a long swallow of wine. “It will unite Arthur’s court as nothing else has.”

  “Except drinking.” Merlin put on a tight smile. “Whatever our differences, we do have that in common.”

  Mark stepped away from him. “Most of us do. Arthur’s right, Merlin. You are a killjoy.” He turned to Britomart and grinned at her. “You too.”

  “Tomorrow morning,” Merlin said heavily, “while the rest of you are sleeping off hangovers, Brit and I will be conducting the court’s business.”

  “Alexander the Great-”

  “Don’t bring that up. Alexander’s been dead a thousand years. And,” he added emphatically, “he died young. I’ve seen him, embalmed in honey, resting in that glass coffin in Alexandria.”

  “Show-off. People say you’ve traveled more and seen more things than one man could do in the span of a natural lifetime.”

  Merlin looked past him to Brit. With a resigned air he asked her, “Why do so many people here mistake rudeness for wise self-assertion?”

  Two of the knights, Bors and Accolon, got into a fight. Accolon was French, one of the men who’d come to England in the retinue of Queen Guenevere. Then, when the king and queen fell out, he had switched his loyalties to Arthur, which made him distrusted on both sides. Bors was a native-born Englishman. Ethnic epithets got exchanged, then blows. The people around them managed to pull them apart and calm them down.

  Britomart was going to say something, but before she could, Arthur raised a hand to give a signal to the musicians, and they played a loud fanfare to signal that the council was about to start.

  Most of the assembled crowd ignored it and kept doing what they were doing. A few, the ones who were relatively sober, moved to the round table and took seats. Merlin, Mark and Britomart were among them; they took chairs close to the king’s.

  Borolet and Ganelin, to get everyone else moving, took a pair of shields and began to hit them with spears. The sound echoed loudly in the stone room and finally got the crowd’s attention. Arthur moved to the table, staggering slightly. People began jostling one another to reach the remaining seats. The musicians fell silent.

  In unison the two squires announced, “Oyez, Oyez! Attend you all! The high council of Arthur, King of the Britons, is in session.”

  With that the room fell relatively quiet. Arthur sat back in his chair and smiled at them all. “Good afternoon, everyone. I know most of you are wondering why I’ve called this extraordinary council today. The fact is, we have important news. Momentous news.”

  Since most of the crowd had already heard about the finding of the stone, this caused barely a stir. Arthur seemed not to notice. Instead, he went on to talk about Percival’s quest, the legends surrounding the stone and the fact that the knight was due back at Camelot with it in a week or less. Then he added that he had requested his sister, Morgan le Fay, to conduct a public ceremony to consecrate the sacred relic to the common good of the people of England.

  This, not even Mark had known. And it created the hoped-for effect. Everyone started clamoring to speak. Morgan was not especially popular with most of the kings and knights and, worse, was not trusted. All kinds of objections were raised. When Arthur pointed out she was the high priestess and therefore the logical person to conduct such a rite, ten different men demanded that Arthur’s own court wizard Merlin perform any necessary rituals. Merlin buried his face in has hands and moaned.

  When Arthur finally managed to quiet everyone, he asked Merlin whether he’d be willing to officiate. Merlin slowly got to his feet. “Arthur, as you know perfectly well, I am not a wizard or any other variety of wonder-worker. I am merely a well-traveled scholar, and I’m more than willing to defer to Morgan’s office and expertise.”

  A dozen more knights rose up and agitated to be recognized.

  But before Arthur could acknowledge any of them, a loud sound filled the room. Everyone looked around to see what was causing it. A thin, pale young man was spinning a bullroarer above his head near one of the doors. The sound was awful.

  A few people recognized the man as Mordred, Morgan’s son. There had always been rumors he was the product of an incestuous union between Morgan and Arthur. Quite suddenly, before anyone could react to his presence, all the torches in the room went out. Merlin noticed that it was several of Morgan’s servants who were putting them out.

  But two remained lit-on either side of the main door. And there, lit in an orange-red halo by them, stood Morgan le Fay herself. She was a tall woman, even paler than her son, and she was dressed in flowing black robes. Her manner could not have been more imperious.

  “Arthur,” she intoned. “You have rendered a great service to this nation in your determination to locate the Stone of Bran. With it, England will prosper. With it, your power and the influence of this court will grow ever greater. With the great god Bran as our protector, this blessed nation shall attain greatness of a kind not known since Imperial Rome.”

  She paused and looked around. Her appearance had caught nearly everyone off guard. None of them seemed at all certain what to make of her presence or her pronouncement. But the mention of Rome, which was always spoken of with some awe, impressed them properly. She spread her arms wide, and her enormous black sleeves seemed to resemble the wings of an ominous bird.

  “Arthur,” she went on, “the gods salute you and recognize your power and authority.”

  Merlin took in the scene, fascinated. Morgan had certainly stage-managed her entrance effectively. Her servants were placed unobtrusively around the Great Hall; they had extinguished the torches on cue. But it was quite out of character for her to acknowledge Arthur’s position in any but a grudging way. What was she up to? Did she hope to get her hands on the stone for her own ends? It seemed the only likely explanation.

  She went on a bit more, apparently oblivious to the fact that most of her audience was too tipsy to follow a long speech. As she continued, people began to talk among themselves, more and more loudly. In one corner of the hall someone actually began to sing. Several times she mentioned “my beloved son Mordred, beloved of my august brother Arthur.”

  Her sense of audience finally told her it was time to finish; she repeated her little benediction on Arthur and England then raised her arms again to signal that the torches should be relit.

  The hall broke out in loud talking, arguing, ranting. Everyone seemed to have reacted to Morgan differently. Arthur, wine goblet still in hand, got to his feet, took Merlin by the sleeve and crossed to where Morgan was standing with her son. The royal siblings hugged in a way Merlin had never seen them do before.

  Close-to, Mordred looked even worse than he had at a distance. Thin, short, rickety, pale as flour, with pimples and a runny nose he kept wiping on his sleeve. He was, Merlin knew, the same age as Nimue-nearly twenty-but his small stature made him look years younger.

  “Morgan, I didn’t expect you here today.” Arthur smiled a political smile.

  Morgan, the would-be queen named for the death goddess, smiled in return. “Arthur, I know it. But the god moved me to attend. How wonderful all this is.” She turned to Merlin. “And Merlin. It is always so interesting to see you.”

  “And you, Morgan. When was the last time?”

  “It has been nearly a year.” She brushed him aside. “When will the stone arrive here, Arthur? And when do you want the ceremony?”

  “I was thinking perhaps at the end of October.”

  “The thirty-first! A day of power, of magic. That is quite appropriate. But why not till then?”
<
br />   “There are some preparations I want to make.”

  “Such as?”

  “In time, Morgan. I’m sure you’ll approve.”

  “This sacred object must be treated with proper reverence, of course.”

  Merlin couldn’t resist. “Maybe we can have it conjure up a handkerchief for your son.”

  Mordred took a step behind his mother and sniffled. “Mother says you keep ravens, Merlin. You should be more observant, then. The god Bran sometimes takes the form of one.”

  “If he shows up, I’ll give him some extra corn.”

  “Mother says you’re not really a magician.”

  “That is nothing, Mordred. I say the same thing.”

  Mordred sniffled.

  Mark made his way through the crowd and joined them. “Hello, Morgan.” Like most of Arthur’s men, he didn’t like or trust her.

  “Mark. How nice to see you. But you must excuse me. The full moon will be rising shortly. I really must be going.”

  With that she turned and swept out of the hall followed by Mordred and the servants who’d worked the “magic” with the torches.

  Merlin watched her go, frowning. “Are you honestly impressed by all that flummery, Arthur?”

  “She is the hereditary high priestess, Merlin. And my sister, a member of the royal house. These things matter.”

  Mark spoke up. “What was it you wanted to ask me, Arthur?”

  “Ask you?” He drank some wine.

  “You told me to find you after council, remember?”

  He didn’t remember and it showed. The strain of thinking was evident in his face. Then it came to him. “Oh- metal!”

  “Metal?”

  “You have skilled metalsmiths in Cornwall, don’t you?”

  “Yes, of course, but-”

  “Send for one of them. The best of them.”

  Merlin was as baffled as Mark seemed to be. “What on earth do you need a tinsmith for?”

  “Not tin, Merlin,” he said in a loud stage whisper. “Gold or silver.”

  “What on earth-? At least wait till you’re certain the thing’s real.”

  “I want to have a precious shrine made to house the stone. It’s the least a divine relic deserves, don’t you think?”