The Excalibur Murders (25 page)

"Who the devil are you?" Brit didn't try to hide her suspiciousness.

"I am Giovanni Pastorini, King Mark's metalsmith."

"The one who made the shrine for the Stone of Bran?" Nimue was impressed.

"Yes, exactly. King Mark has offered my services to Arthur to fashion a sword to replace the one that was stolen from him."

"I see." Brit put on a politician's smile. She was thinking she might get useful information out of him. "Well, the roads are fine, Giovanni. I may call you that, mayn't I? Unless the weather takes a bad turn, you should travel well. When do you leave? If we finish our business with Mark quickly, perhaps you might travel with us."

"I am leaving first thing tomorrow morning, I'm afraid."

"Ah. Well, we'll see you at dinner, then. We found some good inns on our way here. You'll want to know about them."

"I couldn't be more appreciative. Till dinner, then." And he left as quickly as he'd come.

Brit and Nimue looked at each other. Brit said, "It doesn't make sense to me that Mark has imported an Italian metalsmith."

"I remember Merlin saying the same thing."

Brit shrugged. "Well, it's his court. He can keep whatever retainers he wants, I suppose. And kings can be eccentric. There's a king over in France who keeps his own royal fish breeder."

"The more I see of royalty, the more Morgan's court seems typical to me."

"Let's not get carried away. There's a big difference between importing a metalworker and keeping a chest of poisons. "

Mark, rather mysteriously, did not appear for supper that evening. Both Brit and Nimue noticed that Pastorini was absent, too. They made subtle inquiries, prying, probing, trying to find out something that might tell them what they needed to know. But everyone at Mark's court claimed--or feigned--ignorance.

Finally, Brit cornered the majordomo and asked whether she'd be able to meet with Mark the next morning. "On King Arthur's business," she added pointedly.

The majordomo promised her he'd make certain there was room in Mark's schedule for her and headed off to get some wine.

Mark's court was much like Arthur's. Knights drank too much; servant girls flirted with them. It was boisterous and colorful; Nimue said it came as a relief after Guenevere's and Morgan's courts. "It's alive."

"Yes, but with what? Have you noticed the way they all call Arthur simply 'Arthur' but refer to Mark as 'King Mark'?"

"Yes, I had. I found it odd. But Mark is the king here."

"It's one more thing to take into account."

Their night was empty. No one at the castle seemed to feel inclined to entertain these emissaries from the court at Camelot. Brit, uncharacteristically, got drunk. Nimue tried, without much success, to hide her disapproval.

"Don't scold me, Colin. This is the best wine I've had in years."

"Was I scolding?"

"You were, with your eyes."

"We're here on important business. And we may be in danger. I think we should be in our right senses."

"Drunk or sober I'm the equal of any man in Cornwall."

"Of course you are. But--"

"Go out and take a walk if you don't want to drink with me."

Nimue glared at her but decided a walk sounded like a good idea. "I'll see you later. Be careful."

"Be careful," Brit drunkenly mimicked her.

The air was cold and crisp outside. The quarter moon was brilliant in a clear western sky, and there seemed to be a million stars. The Atlantic was calm; gentle waves fell on the coastline. Nimue ambled about the perimeter of the castle, enjoying the evening. Soldiers on sentry duty made their rounds; she tried making conversation, but they ignored her.

Then she saw a cloaked figure leave the castle by a rear entrance and scuttle off into the night. Intrigued, she followed. He headed quickly down the road to the nearest mine head, the one with the barricades where their party had been stopped. She followed, working to keep up.

When the cloaked man reached the sentry post he identified himself: he was Pastorini. He exchanged words with the guard on duty. They were not near enough for her to make out much of what they were saying. But she heard one word clearly, and it struck her in a way that made it seem to ring through the night:
silver
.

Brit went to sleep early. First thing the next morning, Nimue told her what she had heard.

"It's quite possible." Brit yawned and stretched. "Cornwall is made up of granite mostly. Granite frequently has deposits of various metals. The first one they discovered here was copper. But it wasn't worth much; there's copper all over Europe. It was when they went down deeper that they found the tin, which is more precious than they ever imagined. There are zinc, lead and iron, too, though not much of them. And maybe silver as well." She wrinkled her nose. "Probably not a lot of that either, but . . ."

"So we have a motive for Mark--silver mines."

"Tin would be sufficient motive. But I'm still not convinced he's the one we're after. I only wish we knew why he'd been visiting Morgan and Guenevere."

"Let's go see if we can find out. It's time for breakfast."

The dining hall at Mark's castle was smaller than the one at Camelot. Tables were crowded together; servants bumped into one another a lot and spilled things. Brit and Nimue had seats near Mark's, who came staggering into the hall just behind them.

"Morning, Mark." Brit did not hide her disapproval. "You haven't been drinking this early in the day, have you?"

He sat down and called for food in large portions. Then he turned to her. "There's been an accident at one of the mines. The axle of the great wheel broke as the lift was lowering some men down to the lode. Fourteen were killed."

"Oh."

"It's always something."

"A crowned head never rests easily."

Suddenly he seemed to find it odd that she was there. "So what is this about Arthur wanting maneuvers?"

"In the spring. I suggested Salisbury Plain."

"Good suggestion. But why?" He caught a serving girl by her skirt and told her to bring him wine.

"Our spies in France have been picking up intelligence that Leodegrance may be planning an invasion. Arthur wants his forces at full readiness." She invented freely.

"Guenevere's father?" A thought hit him. "So that's why she wouldn't--" But he caught himself and broke off.

"Wouldn't what, Mark?"

"Nothing." He lapsed into a sulky silence. After a moment he asked her, "Do you have any ideas for these maneuvers? "

"One or two. Arthur wants me to go over them with you. And so . . ." She spread her arms wide as if to say, and so here I am.

"If the army will be drilling in spring, then--"

"Yes?"

He glared at her, his eyes full of suspicion. "Never mind."

"Really, Mark, you've had too much wine to discuss serious matters. Why don't you go sleep it off? We can talk about it later."

"Too much wine? There's no such thing. You sound like an old woman. No, it's worse than that--you sound like Merlin."

"Don't be rude, Mark."

"Why Arthur listens to that old busybody . . ."

"Merlin made him king."

"That's what they always say, but I don't believe it. Every time the man opens his mouth he spits dust."

She had finished her breakfast.

"We'll talk later, then."

"Fine." He turned his attention to his breakfast.

At Camelot, Merlin had located several more servants who remembered who and what they'd seen that night. Greffys had been enormously helpful to him. But there was still nothing indisputable, nothing that might hold up at a trial. One serving girl saw Mark in the hall that led to the king's tower. And another remembered Lancelot propositioning her. Two more had run into Mordred. And an unsurprising number remembered seeing Pellenore dashing about the castle on one of his weird quests.

It occurred to him that Petronus might know something useful. The boy had recovered quickly, but Merlin had insisted he return to his room, if not his bed, and remain there. He didn't want him drifting about the castle, prying into things that were none of his business; he had come from Guenevere's court, after all.

He found Petronus in bed and to appearances unhappy about it.

"Good morning, Pete. How are you feeling today?"

"Restless. I keep watching the other squires exercising down in the courtyard. Let me join them. Please."

"Soon, perhaps. There are some things I want to ask you about."

The boy sulked. "I don't know anything."

"Don't take that attitude."

"You think I'm too dull to know I'm healed. If I don't know that, what can I know?"

"Know that I can have you shipped back to Corfe."

"Oh." He pouted. "Please don't. I don't want to go back there. Britomart has promised I'll be a proper squire with her, not just a glorified valet."

"I wouldn't like to send you back, but if you are going to be uncooperative . . ." He spread his hands apart in a helpless gesture, as if to ask, what can I do?

"What do you want to know?" He asked it with all the ill grace of an adolescent boy who was not getting his way.

"I want to know what you remember about King Mark's visit to Corfe."

Petronus blinked; he seemed to be concentrating. "Which time?"

"He's been there more than once?!"

"Yes, at least five or six times in the last year, I think." He sat on the edge of his bed.

"Be certain. It is important."

He focused. "Yes, definitely at least five times, and maybe more."

"You're quite certain?"

"Yes. Of course."

"Do you know why?"

He shook his head. "He kept having private meetings with Queen Guenevere."

"And who else?"

"Lancelot. And her father came over from France the last two times."

"Would you be willing to testify to that? To the king, I mean?"

"Certainly. But--"

"Excellent. You've been more helpful than you know, Petronus."

"Thank you, sir. But I still don't understand."

"You may have helped me solve two horrible crimes."

Confusion showed in his face. "But--"

"We'll talk more. Now I'm off to see Arthur." He got up to go.

"Have you heard from Britomart at all?"

"No. But I'm sure she and Colin are fine."

"Are they friends? I mean, I . . . I . . . they seem to . . ."

"Yes?"

"I wouldn't want her to take Colin as her squire instead of me."

"I don't think you have to worry about that. Colin is not the man he seems."

"I don't understand."

"And that, Petronus, is just as well."

"May I leave this room now?"

Merlin hesitated.

"Please, sir. I can't stand being confined here."

Again Merlin said nothing.

"You haven't put me under guard. You haven't had to. I could have left anytime I wanted to, but I followed your orders. Doesn't that count for anything?"

"Listen to me, Petronus. Things are more complicated here than you understand. You'll be free soon enough, if everything works out."

"And if it doesn't?"

"It will. We both have to believe that."

Late that night, a strange woman moved through the halls of Mark's castle. She wore a clinging, diaphanous gown; her breasts were almost fully exposed by the low cut; and her bright blond hair was covered by a sheer veil. She walked lightly, almost like a spirit. A large candle illuminated her way through the half-lit corridors. No one who saw her paid her the least attention, despite all the security. She had gotten in, after all, so she must be there legitimately. Drafts in the castle made her gown flow and flutter. One startled serving-woman thought for a moment that she was seeing a ghost.

Slowly, she made her way through the castle till she came to Mark's quarters. A guard was on duty; his face, too, had been scarred by acid. He was used to young women being summoned to the king's bedroom late at night; they exchanged a few words, and without hesitation he let her go in.

The room was nearly dark; only one candle burned in the far corner; there were no drafts and it burned steadily. Mark was lying on his bed, more drunk than she'd seen him before. He was half-undressed and only half-conscious, it seemed, and he was muttering something barely audible. Nimue smiled. This was precisely the state she'd hoped he'd be in.

Groggily, he looked at her. "That candle is almost as large as my sword."

She smiled. "It doesn't weigh much."

"Who are you?"

"My name is Eleanor. You told me to come, remember?"

"I did?" He tried to focus on her, without much success. "You work in the kitchen."

Another smile. "That's right."

With a small struggle he sat up on the edge of the bed. "Come here and sit by me."

Lightly, with a little laugh, she did so. He put an arm around her. "Pretty girl."

"Handsome king." She hoped he was too drunk to notice the irony in her voice. Or to act on what were, quite clearly, his intentions.

He caught her by the shoulders and tried to kiss her. And she let him. He tore at one sleeve of her gown and kissed her naked shoulder. Patiently, she permitted it.

Then, gently, she moved a few inches away from him. "Everyone says you should be king."

Baffled, he looked around the room. "I am."

"King of England."

"Oh, that. That is being taken care of. It is only a matter of time. Come over here and let me feel your breasts."

She backed off another few inches. "You must hate Arthur for taking your rightful place."

"Arthur is a fool. And so are you, if you don't let me make love to you."

She resigned herself to being pawed and moved back beside him. He fondled her stomach. "Pretty girl."

"You said that already."

"Pretty!" He shouted it with force. "I want you."

"Here." She stood up. "Let me get you another cup of wine."

She crossed the room to a little table and poured it, and she added a sleeping powder Merlin had given her. Now she had to hope he would talk before it took effect. When she handed the cup back to him, he took it and drained it in one long drink. This pleased her, though she was careful not to let it show.