The Lancelot Murders

by J. M. C. Blair

  "Aren't we still?"

  "Be quiet."

  "One question occurs to me, though."

  "And that is . . . ? Trust you to complicate matters."

  "Why would Lancelot be walking around with a cere monial dagger? And one that was a wedding gift, at that."

  "He was escaping. He needed a knife. Perhaps it was the only one at hand."

  "Perhaps. I wish it did not keep nagging at me."

  "Merlin. Thank you so much for coming."

  It was mid-morning. The rain pounded the castle relent lessly. It was no simple rainstorm; it was an early winter storm. Wind rattled the windowpanes in Guenevere's sitting room.

  The bigamous queen sat on a small chair fashioned like a miniature throne. Apparently she had not slept. She looked drawn; her eyes were sunken and her skin unhealth ily pale. She glanced at the rattling windows then looked back at her visitor. Weakly, Guenevere smiled.

  Merlin found her manner as odd as her appearance. To see her, he would never have guessed that her lover had murdered her father. "Good morning, Guenevere. It seems we're to be visited with awful weather."

  "We already have been." There was no trace of irony in her voice.

  Merlin stood at the far side of the room from her. "Are you speaking in metaphors? It is not at all like you. The one thing I can usually count on with you is your literal mindedness."

  Her eyelid fluttered; she showed no other reaction. "Please, sit. I can have the servants bring you cushions if you like."

  "Thank you, no. I prefer to stand. Arthur has asked me to keep an eye on the storm."

  "I see. And how is my—how is Arthur today?"

  "Still alive. It seems mildly miraculous, doesn't it?"

  "Please, Merlin, I didn't ask you here to spar with you. Far from it."

  "They say a two-headed calf was born in Kent last week. The world is full of novelties." He glanced at an ottoman near where he was standing, paused for a moment to con sider, then sat down.

  "I deserve your sarcasm, for once." She exhaled slowly and deeply; it was the saddest sound Merlin had heard in a long time. If it had been anyone but Guenevere he would have been moved.

  "First metaphors, now humility. Guenevere, you are a changed woman."

  A goblet rested on a table beside her. She picked it up, started to drink, then thought better of it and returned it to its place. "I hope I have changed, at least enough to touch you."

  He narrowed his eyes. "Touch me how? With what?"

  "Merlin, I must ask a favor of you. A large one."

  "If you are attempting to be comical, Guenevere, I'm afraid the humor is lost on me."

  "I am asking seriously."

  "Fine, I shall try to restrain my penchant for being a smart aleck. Tell me what you want."

  "I want . . ." Something seemed to choke her. "I want to ask . . ."

  "Yes?"

  "Merlin, I love Lancelot."

  "I should hope so. Two loveless marriages, both deliber ate, would be rather a lot, don't you think?"

  She brushed this aside. "I love him. And he is innocent."

  For a long moment the words hung between them. Mer lin blinked, not certain he was hearing correctly. "Your loy alty to him is touching, if misplaced. He was found over the body. The murder weapon was his. You should know; you gave it to him. An eyewitness—your own secretary—saw the crime. What more could anyone need to know?"

  "He is innocent." She said it with such serene selfassurance that Merlin was a bit unsettled. It was like hear ing a madwoman deny gravity.

  "He is? Then how do you account for—?"

  "That was not his knife. It was mine. I kept it in a silklined casket on my dressing table. Someone took it."

  "And you are going to ask me to examine the empty casket, correct? All that would prove is that you've hidden your knife in a desperate attempt to confuse the plain facts."

  "The two knives were marked distinctively by the jew eler. G to L and L to G, etched in very small letters on the blade just below the haft. Use one of your famous magnify ing lenses, Merlin. You will see that the knife you have is not marked G to L but rather the reverse. Father was killed with my knife, not Lancelot's, and it was stolen from me. The girl is lying."

  "Petronilla? She is— I have made inquiries. She has a good reputation for honesty and reliability. Why would you have made her your secretary if you did not know it?"

  "I needed a secretary. She was the daughter of my mother's old friend, she could read and write and she was there."

  "Nevertheless, she has no motive for lying."

  "Everyone has a motive for lying." She was beginning to lose her composure; he could hear it in her voice.

  "Perhaps in your court. Really, Guenevere, if this is all you want, I will be going. You will be permitted to tell your story at Lancelot's trial, if you so choose. But you should not permit yourself to hope anyone will believe it."

  She stood and rushed across the room to him. She caught him by the sleeve and said, "Please, Merlin. Tell me what you want. Name the act—I'll do it. But you must prove that Lancelot is innocent. He did not kill my father."

  He glared at her and she removed her hand. "All this would be easier for me to believe, Guenevere, if not for the inconvenient fact that Lancelot tried to kill Arthur, too, mere days ago. Regicide appears to be second nature to him."

  "That was an accident and you know it. Investigate for me. For him. For us."

  "This is perfectly grotesque, Guenevere. You and Lance lot have done everything you could, for years, to bring down Arthur and his court. Evidence aside, do you honestly think I would help you go on with your assorted treasons?"

  "Is that it, then? I can promise you there will be no more."

  "The serpent promises not to bite. Do not be absurd, Guenevere."

  "I swear it. I give you my solemn vow, Lancelot and I will never plot against you and Arthur again. Prove his in nocence."

  Slowly he stood and walked to the nearest window. Heavy rain was falling; streams were cascading from the roof; wind was bending the trees. "Once in the stoa at Ath ens I listened to a clever philosopher prove that black was white. Like everyone else in the crowd, I was dazzled by his sophistry. But when he finished I still knew the obvious difference between the two. Now you want me to play that same kind of mental game, expecting it to change . . . what, precisely?"

  "Please, Merlin. Do I have to beg the man who claims to love justice? Shall I get on my knees? My knife was stolen. Find who did it. The girl is lying. Discover why. Free Lan celot and anything you want will be yours."

  Softly he chuckled. "Suppose what I want is you and your lover in chains? I already have half of that. Will you give me the other half?"

  "I'll do anything. Write a confession; I'll sign it."

  "And then tear it up at the first chance you have. Hon estly, do you think you are dealing with a gullible Corfe fishmonger?"

  "I'll sign it in my blood."

  "I am afraid the paper would rot."

  "For God's sake, Merlin, do you want to see an innocent man punished for someone else's crime?"

  "Lancelot is an innocent man? Perhaps that Greek was right after all and black really is the color of snow."

  "A treaty. A concordat. An act of submission. I'll sign anything, do anything. But you must help me."

  He could not resist grinning at her. "I am afraid I am en joying this much too much. Would Bishop Gildas tell me it is a sin?"

  "Punishing Lancelot for someone else's crime would be a sin."

  "Well, I will promise you this. I will discuss the matter with Arthur. If he thinks your signature has any worth, I will proceed."

  She had been tense; her body now loosened up quite visibly. "Thank you. Thank you, Merlin."

  "It will be Arthur you must thank."

  She clenched her jaw. "If it comes to that, I will do it. On my knees or prostrate before him, if need be."

  "There, there, Guenevere. It won't hurt too much."

>   "You will talk to Arthur, then?" She let a hopeful note creep into her voice.

  "For what it may be worth, I will. But you must not ex pect too much. A wronged husband can hardly be blamed for—"

  "Go to him now. Please."

  He took a step toward the door. "I must confess, you have managed to surprise me. I was expecting more grief. I thought you might want me to arrange a meeting with your mother."

  "Mother does not need my sympathy. Besides, she has already been here."

  He raised an eyebrow.

  "She goes walking about the castle, late at night. She is half-senile, you know."

  "Ah, a daughter's love."

  She ignored this. "You will keep your word? You will talk with Arthur for me?"

  He nodded. "As I promised."

  They exchanged a bit of small talk and he left.

  "She wants what? You must be joking." Arthur strode about his study like a caged animal trying to decide if it was hun gry or furious.

  "No. I am afraid not." Merlin looked from the king to Britomart. "It seems incredible, given her general heart lessness, but I think she may actually be in love."

  "With that lump Lancelot." Brit was deadpan.

  "Yes."

  "Well, there are women who keep goats." She was wry. "I suppose this isn't all that different."

  Arthur went on pacing. "You realize what this means? She's exposed her weak spot to us. Shown her underside, like a pig wallowing on its back in the mud. Which is what you will be doing, more or less, if I permit you to help her."

  "I daresay she is pretty well finished one way or the other." Merlin smiled at the king's metaphor. "You won't let her loose again, will you? She'd be at work raising an army in a matter of weeks."

  Brit snickered. "Let's hope for her sake it's better than the last one she raised. Boys, old men and dozens of priests each claming his own god could bring victory. I think the Christians may have the right idea. With only one god, when things go wrong . . ." She shrugged. ". . . they know exactly who to blame."

  "It isn't the gods I'm worried about, Brit. It's the French." Arthur sat and put a boot up on the conference table. "If Guenevere can do what her father never managed to accomplish—unite all those damn French kingdoms and provinces into a coherent force—we could never hope to win a war against them. With Leodegrance out of the way, it might actually be possible.

  "She could sign a hundred acts of submission, and none of them would be worth the parchment it's scrawled on. And besides, even if Lancelot really is innocent of killing Leodegrance, he is guilty of so many other crimes. And any number of those were capital offenses. Executing him now would be justice delayed, but I can't imagine he'd complain about the extra time he's been given. I say we let Guene vere stew for a few days, then hand her a resounding no to her request."

  Merlin turned thoughtful. "But suppose she is right? Suppose her paramour really is a poor innocent, unjustly accused? We want a just England. And then . . ."

  The king took his foot down and sat bolt upright. "What are you getting at?"

  "Well, for one thing, there is no real evidence of anything Guenevere suggested, except for one thing. I have examined the murder weapon, and it is indeed her knife, not Lance lot's. The inscription L to G is quite clear under a magnify ing lens, etched into the blade just below the handle. And I have had Lancelot's rooms searched, and there is no sign of his own dagger—which likely means that he, or she, or one of their people threw it down a well or some such.

  "Nevertheless, an investigation should hardly take very long. And if he is innocent and we are the ones to prove it, well . . . freeing your wife's lover in the name of justice is precisely the kind of thing that could give your reputation a huge boost across Europe. Your justice will be known to everyone here. And that is exactly what we were hoping to achieve with this conference."

  "Believe me, Merlin, rendering any assistance at all to my wife is the last thing I was hoping to achieve. Besides, it might enhance my reputation for justice, yes—but it might equally well make me a laughingstock."

  Brit was catching Merlin's drift. "No, Arthur, think. How many treaties has Guenevere broken? Suppose we take a page from her book."

  "I don't follow."

  "And you haven't even been drinking." Merlin folded his hands in a gesture of complete serenity. With Brit's back ing, he thought he could persuade Arthur to a course of action that would benefit England enormously.

  "Be quiet, Merlin. What are you suggesting, Brit?"

  "Simply this. Suppose you accept Guenevere's act of submission or whatever she wants to call it—and publicize it to everyone here. Have her swear it in front of all the delegates. And assume Merlin can actually prove Lance lot's innocence. Who's to say you really have to free him? Keep him in a nice, cool dungeon for a few years, on some other charge; there are enough for us to choose from. Hell, he tried to kill you two days ago. After all, you would only have promised Guenevere you would let Merlin investi gate; no one has said a word about releasing him. And if she complains, you still have both her written oath of alle giance and her boyfriend. That would give you leverage if she ever tries another double-cross. Or should I say when?"

  "I like the sound of this."

  "The diplomatic end of it will have to be handled deli cately, and with discretion." Merlin yawned. "I mean, if it looks like we're actually setting her up—"

  "But we are, Merlin."

  "Of course we are. That is what diplomacy is: maneu vering the other fellow into an untenable position, then striking. Everyone will realize that is what we are doing. But if you advertise the fact, you give away the game. In Asia it is considered a sign of intelligence never to be forth right about one's motives, and never to answer any question directly. Let us become more Asian."

  Arthur spent a long, silent moment considering all this. Then, unexpectedly, he broke into laughter. "I like it. And I love you, Merlin. For all your talk about honesty, truth and justice, you're as devious as anyone on earth."

  "I choose to take that as a compliment."

  "Do. It is."

  Suddenly, Simon of York entered in an unaccustomed rush. "Excuse me, Your Majesty. My apologies for inter rupting, but I'm afraid we have trouble brewing."

  "Par for the course, Simon. What is it now?"

  "It's the delegates, sir. They are beginning to realize there is a security cordon around the castle, and they are unhappy about it. In fact, some of them are perfectly furi ous."

  "Damn. They know there was a regicide yesterday. Would it make them feel better if I let everyone move about freely?"

  "They seem to think their diplomatic status should ex empt them from any security measures. They have selected a committee of three to make a formal protest."

  Merlin asked, "Which three?"

  "Bishop Gildas, Count Andrea of Salesi and that man from Flausenthurm or whoever he is."

  "Him? He can't speak an intelligible word."

  Arthur and Britomart watched Merlin for a reaction. Re alizing it, he explained, "You both know Gildas. Since he claims to be the Bishop of England, I can't imagine why he would bristle at having to stay here. Andrea of Salesi is something of a question mark. In fact, I am not quite cer tain why we even invited him, except that we wanted a good turnout so we cast our nets wide. Our agents have no intelligence on him. I think we somehow got the idea that he is more important than he has turned out to be." He looked from one of them to the other. "To be quite truthful, I am not even certain where Salesi is."

  "I believe," Brit interrupted him, "it's a minor Italian city-state. Down near the toe of the boot, across the strait from Sicily. They have a small army and a large treasury. Rumor has it they found the hidden treasure Spartacus was going to use to finance his fanciful revolt."

  "Thank you. But that does not explain what he is doing here. I have checked with Colin, and we have absolutely no memory of why we invited him."

  "Diplomacy." Arthur snorted. "And what about this Lithua
nian?"

  "An enigma wrapped in a mystery. You've seen him, surely. Short, plump, alarmingly pale and fair-haired, excit able. He seems to speak no known language. He is not even making the effort. Latin is the language of diplomacy, but when I speak Latin to him he looks baffled and jabbers on in whatever tongue he speaks."