She smiled a tight, patient smile. “I will have these rooms again, Merlin. Just wait.”
“Perhaps. Perhaps not. As I said, it’s Arthur’s decision. Good-bye, Guenevere.” He couldn’t resist adding, to the ape, “Good-bye, Lancelot.”
She froze; she turned to ice. “Do you really think there is any point throwing that in my face? Do you honestly believe you can make me feel ashamed? We could populate five counties with the bastards Arthur has fathered.” She sneered. “English morality.”
“Is it worse than the French kind?”
“I am living for the day when I can prove it.”
With that she turned and left, pulling the reluctant ape after her. She did not bother to close the door. Merlin did so; it wouldn’t do to have his ravens fly that way and get lost in the rest of the castle.
Morgan took over the Great Hall. Her people, under Mordred’s supervision, arranged the torches and candles according to some prearranged but mysterious plan. A high dais filled one side of the room, with three steps leading up to it. Chairs for the audience were carefully arranged, apparently with the object of giving everyone a good sight line.
Merlin and Nimue watched the preparations for a few minutes, not certain what to make of it all. Seeing them, Morgan joined them.
“You’re turning this room into a theater worthy of Aeschylus.” Merlin was suitably impressed. “Is it for the Stone of Bran or yourself?”
“You expect a tragedy?” She focused on the arrangements, not on Merlin.
Nimue, standing just behind Merlin, spoke up. “The question is, what do you expect? Is all this really necessary? ”
“Arthur wants the ceremony to be as impressive as possible, ” Morgan told Merlin. “This is as much a political event-a state occasion-as a religious one.” Then, suddenly seeming to notice Colin, Morgan looked closely.
Nimue moved farther behind Merlin. Happily, Morgan seemed not to recognize her through the disguise. A loud noise from the dais caught Morgan’s attention, and she rushed to see what had fallen.
“You ought to get out of here, Colin,” Merlin whispered. “We don’t want her recognizing you.”
Nimue was going to protest that her disguise was too good, but she thought better of it.
Then Merlin decided to leave as well. “Wait-I’ll go with you. I don’t want to see how she rigs her magic tricks. That would take all the fun out of it.”
The two of them left Morgan to oversee her preparations. A moment later they ran into Arthur. “Come with me,” he told them. “The kitchen staff are making special treats for tonight. We get first taste.”
“No thank you, Arthur.” Merlin was grateful the king wasn’t drinking.
“Colin, then. You have to like honey cakes-a boy your age.”
“No thank you, Your Majesty.”
Arthur sighed, exasperated. “You two never want to have any fun.”
“Different people derive fun from different activities.” Merlin was offhand. “I get mine from thinking.”
“Well, come on anyway. You haven’t seen the shrine yet, have you? Pastorini did a splendid job with it. Let me get a few cakes and I’ll show it to you.”
This, Merlin couldn’t resist. They went with Arthur to the kitchen, watched him eat three fair-sized cakes then accompanied him up the spiral stone stairs to his chambers.
As always, there was a guard posted at the door. There was a large anteroom, a sitting room and a bedroom off to one side of it. Windows looked out in every direction. Beyond was the study where Excalibur and the Stone of Bran were kept among Arthur’s other treasures. Jewels glistened; gold and silver glinted.
The shrine was evidently too large to fit into the shelved cabinet that held the crown jewels. It rested on a small wooden table in one corner of the room. And it was a fine piece of work, much more so than Merlin expected and more so than anything else he’d seen in England. It was cubical, more than two feet on a side. The walls were made of burnished silver; silver filigree covered most of it, and carefully placed rubies provided bright accents. With no special lighting at all, it gleamed.
Merlin and Nimue were duly impressed and said so.
“But, Your Majesty, shouldn’t it be locked securely away?”
“Of course not, Colin. There’s a guard here and another at the foot of the stairs. Besides, no one would ever dare come in here without permission. No one ever has.”
“My grandfather never died,” Merlin said dryly, “until last year.”
Arthur scowled. “This is a big day for me, Merlin. For all of us. Try not to dampen it too badly, will you?”
Merlin ignored this and bent down to inspect the shrine more closely. “This really is excellent workmanship. As good as some of the things I saw at the court of the emperor Justinian.” He had also seen much better ones there, and in Rome, in Jerusalem and elsewhere, but he decided not to mention the fact. “How did Mark ever lure a craftsman this skilled to Cornwall?”
“There is money in Cornwall,” Arthur said, pleased by the thought. “All Europe buys our tin for their bronze. They need it.”
Merlin ran a finger along one edge of the shrine. And he found he couldn’t hold his tongue after all. “And Pastorini is probably a second-rank metalsmith or he wouldn’t have come here. Imagine what a really first-rate one could do, a Roman or a Byzantine.”
“Nothing better than this.” Arthur beamed.
Merlin decided not to press the point. There was no politic way to do so without pricking Arthur’s sense of importance. But he wanted to learn what he could about the art of metalworking. “Where is Pastorini? I’d like to congratulate him.”
“Back in Cornwall.”
“You’re not letting him attend the ceremony?”
“Tonight is for the stone, Merlin, not the shrine.”
“Still, it seems unfair to deny him recognition for this.”
Arthur shrugged. “He’s been paid. That’s the kind of recognition artists like best. I’m going down to the courtyard to exercise now. To burn off some of this energy. Would you like to do some fencing, Colin?”
“No thank you, sir.”
“Oh.” He seemed puzzled by the refusal. “I’ll never get used to the two of you. Well, I’ll see you both tonight in the Great Hall. The ceremony starts promptly at eight.”
Something occurred to Merlin. “I haven’t seen Percival anywhere lately. He will be there, won’t he? In a place of honor?”
“His influenza has turned to pneumonia. He’s infected half a dozen people already. I don’t wanting him spreading his sickness any further.”
“Maybe you should have him share quarters with Guenevere. ”
“Don’t give me any ideas.”
“I can’t help it. Guenevere inspires them. Well, we will see you tonight, then.”
“Till then.” Arthur beamed, pleased they were duly impressed, and reached for a fencing saber.
“Aren’t you going to show us the stone?” Nimue couldn’t hide her disappointment.
Merlin could never resist needling him. “You know-the really important object?”
Arthur ignored him and addressed Colin. “Oh, that’s right. You haven’t seen it yet, have you?”
“No, sir.”
Voice lowered, he said, “Here it is.” He scowled briefly at Merlin, as if warning him not to make any impertinent comments, then turned his attention to the shrine. Slowly, carefully, almost reverently, he slid the door open on its hinges.
And there it was. The stone had been polished since Merlin last saw it. It was perfectly smooth, perfectly brilliant: a sleek glass skull, four inches high. It caught the light; dark as it was, it seemed almost to glow.
Colin’s eyes widened with wonder, and even Merlin seemed impressed.
“It’s beautiful, Your Majesty.” Colin reached out a fingertip to touch it but Arthur caught his hand and moved it away.
“No! I don’t want that finish ruined. Pastorini spent hours polishing it.”
Merlin looked around the room to see if there was a light trained on it; there was none. Then he moved close and inspected it carefully. “It is beautiful, Arthur. But is it magical? ”
“We’ll know soon enough, won’t we?”
“What miracles has it worked so far?”
“Stop it, Merlin.” Carefully he closed the shrine. “The rite begins promptly at eight o’clock.” He smiled and made a little salute to each of them. “Till then.”
The Great Hall was crowded, even more than it had been on the day when Arthur announced the finding of the stone. People had come from all over the country; entire noble families with their retainers wanted to see the Stone of Bran. There were nowhere near enough chairs; many people were standing. Tapestries depicting the exploits of Bran had been hung all along the wall. The court musicians played festive music. Servants circulated with cakes and ale. This was a holiday, it seemed, even if it wasn’t official.
Mordred and his servants had done a fine job of creating the proper mood. The hall was mostly dark, lit only by occasional candles, except for the dais, which was ablaze with torchlight. There were two thrones set up, a large one for Arthur and a smaller one for Morgan, who was of course not merely the high priestess but Arthur’s sister, a member of the royal family. Between them stood a table elaborately carved from blackthorn on which the shrine would rest.
Merlin and Nimue had a good dinner together then headed to the hall. Nimue decided to stay at the rear near one of the entrances just in case either Morgan or Mordred seemed suspicious of her. Merlin, too late to get a seat, circulated among the crowd, much more interested in seeing the people and their reactions than in the relic.
People stood talking in small groups, wondering loudly just what they were going to see. Arthur had shown the stone and its shrine to only a handful of people, and there were all sorts of rumors about its precise nature. It was a skull made of solid gold, or silver, or the alloy of both called electrum. Or it was made from wood from an ancient prophetic oak. Or it was an actual skull, encrusted with jewels and somehow endowed with miraculous powers by the god. There were skeptics, though not many, who argued that it was all hokum. Wagers were being made.
Pellenore was there, warning people, more or less at random, not about his usual dragon but about a malevolent water sprite. Merlin avoided him quite carefully and ambled about the hall, eavesdropping, pleased that not everyone had been taken in.
When he found Nimue, he told her so. “All this flummery… I can’t tell you how it disgusts me.”
“Yes, you can.” Nimue was wry. “And you have, several dozen times.”
“You have an annoying habit of being contrary, Colin.”
She smiled sweetly. “I can’t imagine who I got it from.”
Just at that moment Mordred walked by and nodded at the two of them. For an instant he seemed to recognize Nimue; then he seemed to think better of it, shrugged and kept moving.
“He’s going to realize who I am sooner or later. He has to.”
“Do you think so? I don’t have the impression he’s any brighter than he needs to be.”
“All he’d have to do is drop a suggestion to his mother, and…”
“I’d worry about her, not him.” Merlin looked to the entrance where Morgan and Arthur would be coming in. There was no sign of them. “Morgan and her boy don’t come here often. After this nonsense is over, I’m sure they’ll be going back to their own castle.”
She glanced around nervously. “I hope you’re right.”
Mark of Cornwall joined them, in a festive mood. “Have you tried the honey cakes? They’re wonderful.”
“I’m dieting,” Merlin said irritably. “How is Percival? He should be here.”
“His pneumonia is getting worse.”
“I’ll go and see him after the ceremony. I am the court physician, after all.”
“He asked for a doctor who believes in the gods. He says someone like you could never cure him.”
“Some things,” Merlin said dryly, “aren’t curable.”
Nimue smiled. “Merlin has an annoying habit of being contrary. Have you ever noticed, Mark?”
“Everyone has.” He scanned the crowd. “There’s Britomart. I have to talk to her about a new drill I want to introduce. ”
“I’m going to get as close to the dais as I can, Mark. Why don’t you join me there?”
Mark nodded, then shouted, “Brit!” and disappeared quickly into the crowd.
A moment later the musicians played a fanfare and then a slow, solemn march. Servants extinguished some of the lights, as they had at the council. The crowd fell nearly silent. Then slowly, majestically, Arthur and his sister came in.
They were dressed in their best court finery, Arthur in white robes trimmed with gold and Morgan in black ones with silver trim. They climbed slowly to the dais and stood in front of their respective thrones.
Ganelin and Borolet stood at attention just beside the platform. Arthur nodded to Borolet, and the squire left quickly, presumably to fetch the shrine. Merlin elbowed his way through the crowd, trying to get closer, without much success. He found himself standing next to Britomart. “Mark is looking for you.”
“I know. I’m avoiding him.”
Suddenly Guenevere swept into the hall, followed closely by Lancelot and several lesser retainers. She went directly to the dais and began to climb the steps to it, clearly expecting to have a place there. Ganelin blocked her way. There was an exchange of words; Merlin couldn’t quite hear what was being said, but it was fairly plain she wanted to take her place on the second throne. At least she had decorum enough not to raise her voice.
Lancelot, who was built like an athlete, slender and fit, ten years younger than the queen, moved past her to confront the squire.
Arthur got quickly to his feet to join his squire and his wife. Morgan did not budge. There were more words. Then Arthur signaled that a third chair should be brought for the queen. A servant brought one, and Ganelin placed it carefully on the other side of Arthur’s throne from Morgan. The queen, trying without success to not look slighted, walked slowly to her makeshift throne and sat. Lancelot turned, descended the steps and disappeared into the audience.
Pellenore, evidently in a great hurry, pushed his way past Merlin and Britomart and disappeared into the crowd as well. Merlin looked around for Mark, but there was no sign of him.
Several moments passed. Arthur bent down and whispered something to Ganelin, who looked around the hall, evidently worried. Morgan sat perfectly still, staring directly ahead. The crowd began to grow restless; they started to talk and move about. When the noise level began to be quite noticeable, Morgan frowned; this was not seemly behavior at a sacred rite. Where was Borolet? Merlin wondered why, with all her careful preparations, Morgan hadn’t made provision for the shrine to be brought more quickly, or better yet to have it brought before the ceremony began.
More time passed. More people ignored the royals on the dais and talked, drank, ate or whatever. Merlin and Brit made their way to the platform. Arthur bent down and told Ganelin, “Go and see what’s holding him up.”
Merlin was enjoying it all. He whispered to Britomart, “Maybe it will transport itself here miraculously.”
“Something’s wrong, Merlin. For once why don’t you keep your thoughts to yourself.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Borolet’s delay was now quite pointed, quite unmistakable. No one could have failed to realize things were not going as planned. The assembled audience was getting more and more restless. Several people took extinguished torches and relit them from the ones that were still burning. A servant came and told Arthur the cakes were almost gone.
Then Ganelin rushed back into the hall and climbed to the dais. He was pale and agitated. He whispered something to Arthur, who turned pale as well. The king looked around the hall and called out, “Mark? Where is Mark of Cornwall? ”
There was no response. Arthur looked uncharacteri
stically grave. He gestured to Merlin and said, “Come with us.” The three men left the Great Hall quickly.
Camelot’s halls were nearly deserted; only servants came and went, each bowing deferentially as the king passed. In a matter of moments the little party reached the foot of the stairs to Arthur’s chambers.
The guard who had been stationed there lay on the floor. Merlin rushed to him and did a quick examination. “He’s unconscious, not dead.”
They climbed quickly. The guard at the top, outside the king’s rooms, had been knocked unconscious, too.
“In here,” said Ganelin, his voice shaking. He led them quickly through the outer chambers.
Blood covered the floor in the study. In the center of a large pool of it lay Borolet’s body. He had been hacked to pieces, evidently with a broadsword. The silver shrine was gone. The Stone of Bran was gone. And so was Excalibur.
TWO. MERLIN TAKES CHARGE
They identified the body from the hair color and the shreds of clothing.
Of course the ceremony was called off. How could it not be? Arthur, trying not to look ill, mounted the dais in the Great Hall and moved to the front of it. He ignored both Morgan and Guenevere. The crowd, noticing something odd in his manner, quieted without him asking them to. He announced softly that the ritual would be postponed, perhaps indefinitely. “Please, all of you, return to your rooms.”
And slowly the audience dispersed. Only Arthur and his close advisors remained.
Merlin approached him and put a hand on his arm. “Arthur, you should have asked them to stay here.”
Seemingly dazed, Arthur gaped at him. “Why, Merlin? Why, for heaven’s sake?”
“Until we could take account of who’s here and who isn’t. Now there’s no way we’ll ever know for certain.”
“Does it matter?”
“There’s been a murder, Arthur. We have to find who did it.”
Sadly, the king said, “I suppose you’re right. That poor boy. He was an excellent young man, Merlin. He and his brother. The best, the most promising I have. Had.”
Ganelin had been listening; he looked even more stunned than the king. “Thank you for saying so, Your Majesty. That would have meant a lot to him.”
The Excalibur Murders Page 4