Arthur was not happy. It was the next morning; he paced his study, trying a new sword. “This is no good. It doesn’t have the right heft or the right balance. I want Excalibur back.” Arthur glared at Merlin then struck at the stone windowsill with his sword. The blade broke neatly in half. “I’ve tried three of these. None is as good as Excalibur. I want you to find it for me.”
“That means finding the killer. You know we’re doing what we can. But we have to be realistic. Excalibur may well have been melted down by now. Or shipped to the mainland and sold on the international market. The same for the stone and the shrine.”
Arthur listened to Merlin’s account of the events at Corfe and frowned ever more deeply. Merlin laid it all out, coolly, dispassionately. Ganelin’s chart was on the table in front of him.
“Our villain would have killed again, Arthur, and the victim would have been Britomart this time.”
“And this boy, this-what is his name?”
“Petronus.”
“Petronus. How is he?
A slight smile crossed Merlin’s lips. “His wounds weren’t terribly deep, despite all the blood. Nothing vital was pierced. But it was quite traumatic for him. He can’t understand why someone would attack him so viciously.”
Arthur slashed the air with the broken sword. “He doesn’t know about the murders, then?”
“No. It was… awkward. I suppose that would be the word. He thinks Camelot is a peaceful, harmonious court. He’ll be over it in a few weeks, possibly less.”
“Splendid. The boy is lucky you were there to tend him.”
“As I said, it looked worse than it actually was. I’m planning to have Colin take care of him while Brit and I are off in the lake country.”
“Well, we have that to be thankful for, at least. There’s been enough death.” For once, Arthur was not drinking. Merlin wondered whether it was a good sign or a bad one. “Colin isn’t going with you?”
Merlin shook his head.
It puzzled Arthur, but he let it pass. “There’s no possibility Petronus was really the intended victim? He was defecting from Guenevere’s court and Lancelot’s service, after all.”
“It’s always a possibility, of course. But he was wrapped in Brit’s cloak.”
The king paced some more. Then abruptly, he stopped and declared, “Lancelot. It must have been Lancelot.”
“What makes you so certain?”
“The boy was his squire. He’d have seen his defection as a personal affront. And you said he had left the Great Hall the night Borolet was killed.”
“That is perfectly possible, of course. And do you think the queen put him up to it?”
“Damn.” It was perfectly obvious to Merlin the king did not really want to think about any of this. “There’s no way of knowing, is there?”
Calmly, Merlin told him, “We’ll know in time. Patience and reason are our allies.”
Arthur tossed what was left of the sword into a corner and walked to the window. “You know what I want.”
“Yes.”
“Then do it.”
“Do we have your permission to investigate Mark?”
Arthur sighed; Merlin had never heard him sound quite so weary. “Do what you have to.”
“You didn’t send him to Corfe, then.” It was a statement, not a question.
“No. Of course not. Go to Cornwall and see what you can find out.”
“Arthur, you’re going to have to do something about him. Until and unless we can demonstrate clearly that his presence at Corfe was innocent-that he was there looking to gain access to the harbor for his tin shipments or some such-it would be a mistake to keep him in charge of the army.”
Arthur paused. “Do you think I don’t know that? Do you think it isn’t the first thing that occurred to me?”
“Then do it. Come up with some pretext and start easing him out of power.”
He eyed a wineskin on a corner table then seemed to think better of it. “But how? If he is a traitor, I hardly want to put him on his guard before we act. And if he isn’t, I don’t want him to suspect we think he might be.”
“Oh, the problems of being king.” Merlin smiled at him. “You wanted this, remember?”
“It wasn’t supposed to be so complicated.”
“Everything human is. Especially when subtlety is required.”
“Don’t be so smug.” He seemed to be groping for something less highly charged to talk about. “You’ve been training Colin in medical treatment?”
“Some. Happily, not much real knowledge is required here. It’s mostly a matter of bandaging the boy’s wounds and keeping him off his feet till they heal. Of course, keeping a boy that age in bed for several weeks will be an interesting challenge, but I think Colin will be up to it.”
“Several weeks? For minor wounds?”
“I’m not completely sure we can trust him. He is from Guenevere’s court, after all. His defection could be a convenient fiction to cover spying.”
Arthur moved next to him and looked at the chart. “And this thing. Have you made any progress deciphering it?”
"Well…” Merlin was suddenly in his element; he put on his best teacher manner. “These crosses seem to be heading roughly in the direction of the refectory. If we can establish that Lancelot was there with one of the girls, then we’ve eliminated the first set of symbols and the first suspect. And I’m more and more certain the triangles represent Pellenore. They ramble all over the castle.”
“But if Lancelot didn’t kill Borolet and Ganelin, it doesn’t make sense that he’d attack Brit.”
“You said it yourself. The attack may have been unrelated to the earlier killings. It may have been about Petronus. Or maybe Lancelot realized Brit had gotten him drunk and talkative in a way he didn’t like. He confessed to constant infidelity to Guenevere. And of course Guenevere herself may have been behind the attack, if she suspected Britomart was seducing her man.”
“Or her man was the seducer. You think too much, Merlin. ”
“There’s no such thing as thinking too much. It’s what makes me useful to you.”
Arthur resumed his pacing. “Go to Cornwall. Find out why Mark was there.”
“First, Morgan, I think. She and that wizened weasel of a son of hers will be easier to eliminate.”
He narrowed his eyes. “You think Mark is the villain.”
“I think there’s a good chance of it. But I’ve been wrong before.”
“I can’t imagine such a thing.”
“Don’t be sarcastic, Arthur. You must understand what that means. We have a terrible problem. He’s the military commander. A good many of the knights will be loyal to him. Removing him-arresting him-will be tricky. You need hard, absolutely irrefutable proof.”
“Find it. Whether it’s Mark we’re after or not, find it. Do whatever you want. Go to Byzantium and investigate the emperor if you must. But find me the killer.” He glared around the room. “And get me my sword back. And the Stone of Bran.”
Merlin stopped at the door. “Oh, and about that school for the squires and pages?”
“Later, Merlin.”
The mood throughout Camelot was subdued. Brit, Nimue and Merlin were all determined not to let out word that they were on the trail of the twins’ murderer. The official story was that they were simply running some errands for the king. But people knew better, or at least suspected. Maintaining an official silence was becoming difficult. And there was a certain amount of tension: who was suspected? Even the servants were on edge.
Merlin made his way back to his tower, stopping to chat with various people, nearly all of whom tried to find out why he’d gone to Corfe, what he’d found there and why he’d come back with one of the squires from Guenevere’s court. He fielded all the questions quite tactfully, so that no one realized how evasive he’d been till after he’d moved on.
He found Nimue in Petronus’s room, checking bandages. He said good morning to her then asked, “How
are you feeling this morning, Pete?”
The boy was smiling. “I’m at Camelot. I’m to be Britomart’s squire. How could I not be happy?”
“Believe me, it could happen. Are your wounds giving you much discomfort?”
“They itch.”
“That’s a good sign. It means they’re healing, and quickly.”
“Good. Can I go out and exercise with the other squires?” He shifted his weight in the bed.
“You are to remain in bed and in this room until I give you permission to do otherwise. We want you well and healthy. Do you understand?”
“But I feel fine.”
“You’re to do as you’re told. We have one rebel to deal with; we don’t need another.”
“Rebel?”
Merlin had let himself forget that the boy knew nothing about the Stone of Bran and the murders, and that he’d decided not to tell him yet. Nimue covered his slip. “I’ll tell you about it later, Pete, all right?”
Merlin asked her to join him in his study, and they climbed the spiral stairs together.
“I’ll prepare a calmative potion for you. Put it in his food or his drink and it will make him less restless.”
She laughed. “And easier to control?”
“To the extent boys that age can be controlled at all, yes. And I’ll prepare a salve to help his wounds heal. Have you had a chance to talk with Greffys?”
“Just for a moment or two. I don’t think he’s found out much.”
“He hasn’t been talking to the servants?”
She nodded. “He has, but he’s out of his depth.”
“Then it’s just as well you’re staying behind. Have him introduce you to the more talkative among them and see what you can learn. But remember, be discreet. Be indirect. We don’t want to put anyone on his or her guard.”
“I know what to do.”
“I want to move quickly. Brit and I will leave to visit Morgan tomorrow morning. If you can find the girl who was with Lancelot, or at least someone who knows definitely that he was with a girl, we will have eliminated one suspect, at least.”
“If. Do you think there is such a girl?”
“I think Lancelot is probably too dim to have invented a story like that. What would be the point?”
“Male boasting. Never underestimate the power of the male ego.”
“See if you can find out, one way or the other.”
"But Merlin… why would a girl from the kitchen…?”
“Don’t be naïve, Nimue. Knights, lords and kings have their way with women of the lower ranks. Remember Anna? It is called privilege. If there is something you should never underestimate, it is the vulnerability of women.”
“Vulnerability? There might be another name for it. But I’m more grateful than ever to be disguised as Colin.”
He smiled. “I’m glad you are, too. You are the most apt pupil I could want.”
“Why, thank you, Merlin.” She blushed.
“Didn’t you know I think so?”
“You’ve never bothered to say it before. Men.”
He crossed to his table and found a sheet of paper. “Here. I want you to try and find the chemicals on this list for me. You should be able to locate them in the armory, I think. Tell the armorers they’re for me.”
She took the list and read it, puzzled. “Acids?”
“I’m no swordsman. And this is getting dangerous. We can’t count on our villain mistaking someone else for one of us a second time. I’ll be in the stables, at the blacksmith’s forge. I have some glass-blowing to do.”
Arthur wanted Merlin and Brit to take an armed escort. He told them so at dinner in the refectory. Merlin insisted that would only attract attention. “We’ll be safer traveling on our own.”
“Nonsense. You’re both ministers of the state. And you’re much too valuable to put yourselves at risk. Suppose someone comes at you with a sword? Look at what happened to Petronus. You’re an able man, Merlin, but you aren’t much good in a fight.”
Brit bristled at this. “And I, of course, am completely useless.”
“Britomart, we are dealing with a cunning villain here. Possibly a mad one. I won’t have you vulnerable when it is avoidable. You will travel by carriage, not by horse, and you will have an escort of soldiers. I’ll have Accolon lead them. This is not debatable.” He turned and walked away from them.
And so the next morning a carriage and driver were provided, along with a detachment of six men on horse-back, including Accolon. Brit and Merlin stepped inside their conveyance unhappily, and with a lurch it began to move. The horses’ hooves clattered loudly on the courtyard stones.
Brit felt her skill as a knight was in question. “I’ve beaten most of the knights here in single combat.” She sulked. “Including Arthur himself. He knows I can take care of myself.”
“You mustn’t take this personally, Brit. He’s underestimating me, too. But it is a matter of public policy. If we bring Mark down, you will be the country’s top military officer. If I were advising the king, I’d tell him to do exactly as he’s doing.”
“How, exactly, is he underestimating you?” She asked the question with a sneer in her voice.
“He is assuming the only way to defend oneself is though main force.”
“Isn’t it? Merlin, you’re well into middle age. And you’ve never been an athlete. How could you possibly defend yourself from an attacker?”
He smiled, reached into his pocket and produced a handful of small glass globes. Each of them contained some clear fluid. “With these.”
“With marbles? Merlin, you’re not serious.”
“These are made from very thin, very fragile glass. And inside each of them is a quantity of aqua regia.”
“Acid? You mean to fight off an insane killer with marbles full of acid?”
“Aqua regia is not simply acid-it is the strongest acid known to science. It can dissolve gold. If someone comes at me with sword drawn, it will stop him, believe me.”
“You’re making a fairly big assumption. Suppose he attacks from a distance? With spears or arrows?”
“No defense is perfect, Brit.”
“I’ll say.” She smirked. “Why don’t you leave your safety in my hands?”
“Yours, or the soldiers accompanying us?”
“Be quiet.”
Their party moved through the moors, not far from the hamlet where Anna had lived. The sky turned dark, and streamers of mist snaked through the air. Trees were stunted and twisted. One of the soldiers in their escort produced a flute and began playing mournful melodies. For a time, the soldiers talked among themselves; then they grew more subdued. At one point an enormous owl swooped down at the carriage as if it might be prey for the bird. One of the soldiers swiped at it with his sword, but it was too quick and too agile.
“I don’t like this,” Brit complained. “This is like a landscape out of a nightmare.”
“Yet you’re certain your sword will be effective here.”
“Stop bickering, Merlin. I’m serious.”
“Have you never traveled through this part of England before?”
“No, of course not. I’m a military commander, and Morgan doesn’t have much of an army.”
“What kind of landscape did you expect?” he asked in a mock-serious tone. “We are visiting the realm of the witches.”
The flutist’s music echoed eerily through the fog. When the party stopped to rest Brit asked him about his instrument. “It has the strangest sound, like nothing I’ve ever heard.”
The man held his flute out to her. “Here you are, my lady. There aren’t many like it left.”
She took it. It was the color of faded ivory, and it had unusual heft. “What is this made of?”
“Bone, my lady. This was carved from the thighbone of some ancient enemy defeated in battle. My father willed it to me.”
“Human bone?”
He nodded. “That is why it sounds so mournful. It has felt everythi
ng human.”
Gingerly, she gave it back to him. “Try and play something livelier, will you?”
“The instrument dictates the music, not the musician.”
“Nevertheless, try and play something that might lift our spirits out of this terrible place.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
The party traveled on. In time the swamps gave way to little lakes, then to larger ones. But the sky remained dark and the fog never lifted, not even momentarily. They came to a small village that actually had an inn, and Merlin decided they would spend the night there.
Accolon disagreed with this. “I think we should try and make it to Morgan’s castle tonight. We’re being followed.”
Merlin looked down the road behind them. There was no one in sight. “Are you certain?”
“Quite certain. They’ve been there since just after we left Camelot.”
Merlin let out a long, deep sigh. “I’m so weary of this. But we need rest, Accolon. We’ll stop here tonight.”
“Yes, sir.”
The innkeeper, happy to have nine paying guests, went out of his way to make them feel comfortable. Supper was surprisingly large; wine flowed freely; beds were ample and soft and warm, and there were cheerful fires in each room.
Brit was not happy as she ate her meal. “This tastes like fog.”
Merlin was amused by her discomfort. “You have eaten fog, then?”
“We’ve been eating it all day. This meat has the same foul taste as the air we’ve been breathing. It has polluted everything.”
“And Morgan has breathed it all her life. Perhaps that accounts for her personality and behavior.”
“Do you really think there’s a chance she’s behind the murders? I thought you had decided someone else was the culprit.”
“Don’t underestimate Morgan, Brit. She has a notorious chest of poisons, and she uses them as instruments of policy in her little queendom. She sits in that hideous castle of hers and casts her spells and charms, and chants her invocations to all her imaginary gods. Then when they fail she resorts to poison or a knife in the dark. And people wonder why I prefer reason and logic to superstition and belief.”
The Excalibur Murders Page 16