Untitled (36 page)

   At her table Nimue took Merlin's note out of her pocket. What could he know? What could he have found out in France? She looked around the Great Hall, wishing he would arrive. No one there looked happy, from Guenevere and Lancelot, to the knight/jurors, to the king himself. The trial had not gotten off to a promising start. There had al­ ready been breaches of decorum; it seemed likely there would be more. And even though every measure was being taken to ensure that the proceedings were as fair as could be—certainly more fair than any other king in Europe would have permitted—the scholar in her knew that things were arrayed against any possibility of Lancelot being found not guilty.

   Arthur called on her to begin, and she rose and pre­ sented her case. It was all quite straightforward, and every­ one already knew the salient facts. The murder weapon was his—or his lover's. He had been found standing over the body, soaked in the victim's blood. There was a witness who saw him do the murder. She indicated Petronilla in the crowd, and the young secretary squirmed in her seat, look­ ing more than slightly uncomfortable.

   Nimue laid it all out clearly, neatly and efficiently. When she finished, the people in the hall were mostly silent. Eyes were on the king or on Lancelot, anticipating his attempt to rebut what Colin had said.

   Then, suddenly, a young woman rushed into the hall. "Your Majesty," she shouted in a strong French accent. "Your Majesty! The queen!" Four guards surrounded the woman and restrained her.

   Everyone turned to look at Guenevere, who appeared as startled as everyone else.

   But the woman was one of Leonilla's servants; Nimue recognized her at once.

   Arthur, scowling, asked her what the problem was. "We are conducting a trial here, a capital trial. This interruption is most unwelcome. Take her away."

   The guards began to do so, but she kept crying out. "The queen! The queen! Her life is in peril!"

   Immediately Arthur got to his feet and called a recess. "We will resume in thirty minutes' time." Then he, his knights and most of the rest of the crowd followed the woman to the wing where Leonilla's rooms were. As they rushed through the halls the servingwoman explained. "The queen was asleep all morning. She had not slept much last night. When she woke, she called for Jean-Michel to come join her. When I explained that he had been arrested, she ran mad. She rushed through the corridors raving, trying to find the dungeons. When she finally did and the guards refused to admit her, she shrieked like a madwoman and ran off. Before I could catch up with her, she had vanished somewhere into the castle."

   Arthur stopped walking and glared at her. "The queen has been more than half-mad for weeks now. Why haven't you been watching her more closely? And how does this put her life in danger?"

   "I found her back in her bedchamber, sire. She was perched on the window ledge—and threatening to jump. And she kept crying, 'I want to see my young man. Let me see my boy.' When anyone makes a move to pull her back inside, she moves closer to the edge. Oh, Your Majesty, she will die."

   They reached her chamber. A dozen servants were clustered around the window, all wearing looks of deep concern. Nimue wondered whether they were actually con­ cerned about the old queen or were merely worried about what would happen to themselves should she die.

   The servants parted to make way for Arthur. Nimue fol­ lowed him to the window.

   Leonilla stood on the very edge. Outside, the sky was overcast and a stiff wind blew. Nimue hoped the queen was strong enough to keep her balance in it. Her black robes billowed wildly. She was not holding on to the edge of the building. Over and over she repeated Jean-Michel's name, as if he might answer from the sky.

   Arthur spoke to her in as soothing a tone as he could manage, given what was happening. Nimue joined him. With luck, one or both of them would find the right thing to say to calm her insane determination to end her life.

   Leonilla was distracted by their talking. A gust of wind knocked her off balance. Just as she started to fall Arthur caught her by the arm and pulled her inside.

   Guards carried her to the bed. She was oddly docile. She whispered softly, "Jean-Michel."

   Arthur gave Captain Dalley orders for her to be closely guarded round the clock. "The last thing we want is another dead French royal." Then, slowly, the crowd dispersed back to the Great Hall.

   But the incident had been too disruptive, too upsetting. After a brief conference with Nimue, Arthur announced that the trial would remain in recess until noon the follow­ ing day.

Nimue remained restless all day long. That night she had trouble sleeping. Leonilla's increasing madness aside, she was concerned about Merlin, from whom no further word had been received. When, very late, the moon rose and shone into her eyes, she rolled onto her side and finally fell asleep.

   Then, just before dawn, as the sky was beginning to lighten, she was wakened by the sound of someone in her room. Thinking it was an assassin, she gasped loudly and held her pillow in front of herself. But when she heard a familiar laugh in the shadows, she knew it was Merlin.

   "What on earth are you doing here? Where have you been all this time?"

   "Our channel crossing was slow—there were heavy winds."

   "And what did you learn in France?"

   Instead of answering he found a stool and asked her, "What has been happening here?"

   She brought him up to date on everything: the trial, the knights anxious for action, the imprisonment of JeanMichel per Merlin's orders. "Oh, and Leonilla is becoming more and more unhinged. When she found out we had ar­ rested him, she tried to kill herself."

   After a long moment's pause, Merlin chuckled and said, "Excellent."

   Nimue sat up. "Do you mean to say you've solved the mystery?"

   "I believe so, yes."

   "Then tell me who killed Leodegrance and the others."

   "In time, Nimue."

   "Was it Jean-Michel? I half-suspected him."

   "Jean-Michel," Merlin told her slowly and carefully, in precise measured tones, "is dead."

   "Dead? But—"

   "He is dead. I am telling you so. By mid-morning, the entire castle will know."

   "Merlin, what on earth are you up to?"

   "After breakfast we will have to confer with Arthur about what to do with the body. I think an unmarked grave would be appropriate. Do you agree?"

   "For god's sake, Merlin, tell me what you found out. Who did these crimes?"

   He buried his face in his hands. "I am afraid there is no one we can hold accountable."

   "But—"

   "Please, Nimue, I have not had any rest. I must go to my room and get at least a few hours' sleep. Things will become clear soon enough. Meet me in the refectory after break­ fast."

By sunup the entire castle was buzzing with the news that the young Frenchman had died in his prison cell. One ru­ mor held that some of Arthur's knights, anxious for some action, had forced their way into his dungeon and slaugh­ tered him. Another version held that he had wrapped his chains around his throat and suffocated himself. Still again, there was a contention that some unknown assailant had somehow gained entry to his cell and done him in. The only thing everyone seemed to agree on was that he had died the previous day, under the noses of the guards. So, naturally, more theories sprang up, implicating them.

   At breakfast no one talked about anything else. The dip­ lomatic grapevine, whch had been operating more or less openly since the conference began, quivered and vibrated with the news. Someone claimed to have seen the ghost of Leodegrance stalking the halls of the Spider's House, so naturally he must have been killed somehow by JeanMichel, who he now killed in turn.

   As the morning passed, the theories grew more and more wild and improbable. Jean-Michel had been in league with the Byzantines, who murdered him to keep him silent. Suspicion even fell briefly on Germanicus, even though no one could suggest a possible reason why he of all people should have killed anyone; purportedly he had brought an array of poisonous spiders with him from Egypt and used one of them to do the deed.

   Throughout breakfast Arthur and Britomart kept silent about it all. When they were questioned by this knight or that delegate, they claimed to know no more than anyone else and fell silent. They were unwilling even to confirm that the young man was dead.

   Then, near the end of the meal, Merlin walked unassum­ ingly into the hall and took his seat at the head table, beside Arthur. And he was immediately surrounded by the curious and plied with questions about Jean-Michel's death. But he ate a small breakfast and did his best to ignore it all. The only thing he was willing to say was that he had arrived back at Corfe only that morning; the lowest scullery maid must know more than he did.

   Of all the castle's residents, only the French remained out of the buzz, presumably stunned by the death of still another of their number. Petronilla took a light breakfast alone in a far corner of the refectory, then left without talk­ ing to anyone. Neither Guenevere nor Leonilla appeared; they sent servants to fetch their breakfasts. The lesser French functionaries and the servants all maintained a rev­ erential silence even though, to appearances at least, none of them had liked Jean-Michel much.

All day long the rumors circulated, each wilder and more unlikely than the one before. There were alleged conspira­ cies involving the Pope and Bishop Gildas, secret agents from China, and stories even more preposterous. Merlin went about his business, serenely ignoring it all. But he appeared pleased; about what, no one could say.

   Just after the noonday meal Nimue confronted him. "I want to know what's going on."

   He smiled. "I've had an idea about lens-grinding. If the technique I have in mind works properly, I should be able to make my viewing lenses even more powerful."

   "That's not what I mean, and you know it perfectly well. What happened to Jean-Michel? Why all the secrecy about his death?"

   "Honestly, Colin. One of the keys to wisdom is knowing where to direct your curiosity."

   "There are times, Merlin, when I believe you became a state minister because it increases your opportunities to annoy everyone."

   "You are not the first one to say so. But believe me, it is not true. What I do, I do for reasons that are sound, not frivolous—at least in my mind. Word of the poor boy's death has stirred up quite a little storm."

   "And this storm is what you want?"

   "Think. If you were the killer, and if you had been op­ erating undetected all this time, how would you react to the presence of another killer? Something is bound to happen."

   "If I were the killer, and if someone else was arrested for my crimes and then died—or was executed—I would hardly be able to contain my glee."

   "That would depend on your motives for the killings, would it not? Besides, what makes you so certain there is only one killer? Can you think of any single individual who had motives for murdering all three—Leodegrance, Po­ darthes and Marthe?"

   She was deflated. "No, I suppose not. But even so—"

   "And yet I am fairly certain there was only one killer. And Jean-Michel's death may be the key to proving it."

   "I could wish you didn't talk in riddles all the time."

   He leaned back and stretched out. "The human race is a riddle. Humanity's willful evil is a riddle, to which I fear there is no solution. What do you think about life after death?"

   The question caught her off guard. "I beg your pardon? What I think is that you're trying to change the subject."

   "Not at all. Arthur believes in it. Do you?"

   "You know the answer to that perfectly well."

   "Do I?" He scratched his nose casually. "All of our sus­ pects—everyone who might conceivably have done the killings—adheres to a religion that holds that death is not the end but the beginning. Morgan and her people have their Hall of Heroes rotating eternally at the north pole of the sky. The Christians have their heaven."

   "Yes? Will you get to the point?"

   "I think it is time to put the strength of their beliefs to the test. How would you like to become someone else?"

   "I already have."

   "How would you like to stop being Colin, then?"

   "You've always encouraged this disguise. What are you suggesting?"

   "Temporarily. For a short time."

   "So help me, Merlin, if you don't get to the point, I'll tie your beard in knots and hang you from the top of Wizard's Tower."

   "We are in the wrong castle for that."

   "Even so. Tell me what you have in mind."

   He rubbed temple thoughtfully. "Very well. But you must promise me you will not repeat this to anyone."

"What did you say? You want me to what?"

   "It is a simple enough concept, Morgan. What do you not understand?"

   The two of them were conferring in her chamber. Merlin had insisted she order everyone else away, so as to make sure their conversation was private. "Damn the fool who built this castle without proper doors."

   Morgan was deeply suspicious but did as he requested. But she had her guard up. "I am the high priestess of En­ gland, as you know perfectly well. Our traditions are under attack by these upstarts—who you encourage. And now you want me to do this?"

   "Relax, Morgan." He chuckled softly to himself. "It is not as if I were asking you to commit blasphemy of any sort."

   "You and I have never been friends, Merlin; never even liked one another. You are much too committed to what you call rationality—as if anything human might be ra­ tional. If you are asking me to do this, now, you must have some irreligious motive. I will never participate in such a thing."