The Lancelot Murders

by J. M. C. Blair

  "I am afraid so, yes. As the only member of our party permitted to speak—"

  "Of course. And I will want to interview Petronus my self. Will you be along as interlocutor?"

  "It is quite necessary, I fear. Petronus, like all our clerics, has vowed never to speak, so that he may turn all his thoughts to the Lord, and so I—"

  "I understand perfectly. Shall we plan to meet after the evening meal, then?"

  "That would be most agreeable." Merlin made a slight bow.

  "And needless to say, I will want whatever news you can provide about our queen."

  Merlin nodded. "Naturally. Until then."

  The castle showed signs of being fairly new but with a few wings that were clearly older; a great deal of it had been erected since Merlin's last visit, a decade earler. It was all in poor repair. Walls were cracked; water dripped from ceil ings and walls; mold grew. Leodegrance and Leonilla's ambitions had outstripped their treasury; they must have been more hard-up for money than they ever let on; it made their various attempts to seize land in England that much more explicable.

  "Anselm" and his monks were led through halls strewn with litter. Dogs ran wild in the castle, apparently underfed and ungroomed; hallways smelled of them.

  As they neared the place Merlin had warned everyone that they would most likely be spied on; it was important that they all remember to maintain silence. If anything im portant came to light, they were to pass the information to Merlin in a note. As they moved through the castle halls, they got suspicious glances and even glares from nearly everyone who saw them.

  Merlin and Petronus shared a room; Martin and his knights had three others. Once they were in their cham bers, left to their own devices and untended by the French, he circulated a note reminding them of the importance of keeping under cover, which meant in essence maintaining silence and not prying too openly. With so many suspi cious eyes and ears, he wrote, our every move will be watched and probably reported. Remember that if we are taken to be spies, we will most likely be executed forth with.

  Once they had stowed their packs in their room, Merlin found a servant to lead them to the chapel, where they made a show of praying in silence for an hour. At dinner they ate frugally. There was every reason for onlookers to believe that they were a poor religious order, humbly de voted to God's service.

  When the prayers were done and the meal over, Petronus had his meeting with his uncle, chaperoned by Merlin. As they talked it became more and more apparent that Pierre was more concerned with chasing legacies than with security. Everything seemed to be to his satisfaction, which only served to convince Merlin more fully that they would be spied on.

  Merlin told Pierre about the state of Leonilla's health and mental faculties, and Pierre's reaction to the news was impossible to gauge. Was he pleased or alarmed? Court official that he was, he gave nothing away.

  Then, late at night by candlelight, Merlin conversed by note with Petronus. I have seen no sign of Beliveau. I have not even heard anyone mention his name. I wish I could see him—at least catch a glimpse of him—before tomorrow.

  He is old. Very old. Older than you, even. Merlin scowled as he read it. He usually keeps to his rooms.

  Where is his workshop?

  On the top floor. It is usually guarded because of the gold, silver and gems kept there.

  In the morning I will want you to take me there. I have told Pierre you and the man were friendly, so with luck no one will be suspicious.

  What about the guards?

  I shall have to play the gentle shepherd for their sake, benevolently concerned for his flock. That has not failed us yet.

  That night people throughout Corfe Castle were wakened by screams. Everyone rushed to where they seemed to come from—the wing where Leonilla was quartered.

  Jean-Michel, in his nightshirt, was clearly in charge; the other servants in Leonilla's retinue all looked to him for direction. Two maids, both crying hysterically, stood by the bed. The sheets were stained with blood. "It is the queen."

  Nimue quickly took in everything and everyone in the bedroom. "Who was here? Who saw it happen?"

  "The queen—murdered in her bed." Jean-Michel's voice broke off. For the first time Nimue took seriously the idea that he might genuinely have loved the old woman. He composed himself. "Leonilla liked to sleep with no one else in the room. I talked to her about it time and again, tried to convince her it put her at needless risk, but—" He spread his hands apart in a gesture of helplessness. "She was al ways a light sleeper. The least noise would awaken her."

  "Pity she didn't hear the killer, then."

  "She did. We all heard her scream."

  "Has anyone examined the body?"

  He shook his head.

  Nimue slowly approached the bed. Blood was dripping

  from the covers and onto the floor, and she was careful not to step in it. She gingerly pulled the covers back.

  In the bed was the body of a young woman. It was Leonilla's maid, Marthe. Her throat had been slashed so deeply that her head was nearly severed.

  At that moment a figure wrapped in black robes ap peared at the bedroom door. Leonilla stood there, wideeyed, trembling. "Where is my husband?" she cried.

  Jean-Michel rushed to her side, put an arm around her and hustled her to another room of her suite.

  Nimue turned back to the body in the bed. The face was contorted with fear and agony, but she recognized Marthe clearly enough. Another servant confirmed it was her.

  Impaled in her throat so deeply that only the end of the handle showed was another of the ivory-handled gold knives.

  And so the next morning, well before breakfast, Merlin and Petronus made their way to the top story of the castle to Beliveau's workshop. A guard was posted there. Merlin had a quick conversation with him, explaining that Pierre had authorized their visit to the old jeweler. The man's suspi cion was undisguised but he finally let them enter.

  Beliveau's room was large and airless—not, Merlin told himself, the healthiest environment for an old man who worked with fire and chemicals. There were no windows; no air circulated. Merlin remarked to himself that it was the first time he had ever found a room in a castle with no drafts. Only two candles lit the place, not nearly enough to make it habitable, and neither flame flickered even slightly. More frugality? Merlin wondered.

  Against the far wall was a cot. Beliveau was asleep on it, to the appearances. Petronus and Merlin approached silently, not wanting to disturb the man. But when they were six feet away from him, a dim reflection of candlelight flickered in his half-opened eyes. In a surprisingly strong voice, he said, "Who are you and what are you doing here?"

  Merlin introduced himself as Anselm, then had Petronus step forward so Beliveau could see and recognize him.

  "Petronus. Little Petronus." The old man turned his head to them but made no attempt to sit up. He smiled feebly, but his voice remained strong. "My true apprentice. Not so little anymore. You will be tall and handsome soon. How are you, boy?"

  Merlin explained about the vow of silence and that they were on their way to cross the mountains to Compostela. "But while we were passing near his home, Petronus ex pressed a wish to see his old master."

  Beliveau smiled. "You always were a thoughtful, con siderate boy. Are you visiting your family castle, as well?"

  Petronus shook his head.

  "I don't blame you. They are not the pleasantest people. But I am glad you have chosen a religious life. Cloistered, the world will not be able to corrupt you. Knowing that there is at least one good man left in the world, I may die in peace."

  "Die?" Merlin interrupted.

  Abruptly, as if he were explaining a minor annoyance, Believeau said, "I have a cancer."

  In a low voice Merlin said, "I see. I am most sorry." He thought he saw tears forming in the corners of Petronus's eyes, and he looked discreetly away.

  "May I impose on you to give me your blessing, Father Anselm?"

  Merlin shi
fted uneasily. He had been vaguely aware that someone might make such a request. But from a dying man . . . He decided to change the topic and hope Beliveau would forget what he'd asked. "You say Petronus here was a good apprentice?"

  "Yes, the best. Able, quick-witted, eager to learn. But you must know all that."

  "Like all boys he has been a bit . . . problematic. But we are most happy to have him in our order."

  Beliveau chuckled softly. "He is the best. Not like that other fool, the one Leonilla forced on me."

  He was not about to lose this conversational thread. "Another apprentice?"

  "A young villain named Jean-Michel. He was Leonilla's—what is the polite word?—her favorite. So he never did much work, and when I complained to the queen she simply laughed it off. It is the sign of a poor ruler to trust friends blindly. But she was wanting in so many ways. I assume you've noticed how badly the castle is crumbling, and parts of it are only a decade old. She was always too busy murdering supposed rivals to pay much attention to anything else. Queens."

  "But what about this, er, 'favorite' you mentioned?" Merlin hoped his motive for asking was not too transparent.

  "A horrible young man. A liar, a thief, a gigolo . . . He used to steal things all the time." Suddenly he winced with pain. Merlin grew alarmed, but the spasm seemed to pass quickly.

  "You are an expert at your craft, Reynaud. I have seen the golden knives you fashioned for the wedding of Guenevere and Lancelot."

  "Those knives. I wish Leonilla had never given me the job. It took forever to accomplish them. I made a dozen or more prototypes, and she rejected each one, wanting some thing fancier and more elaborate. All that gold, all that ivory—for nothing." He scowled, then coughed rather vio lently. Blood trickled down his chin. "You must excuse me, please."

  "We understand quite well, I'm afraid."

  "How anyone can believe this world is the work of a be nign, intelligent Creator . . ." He burst out in another fit of coughing. Petronus rushed to his side and took his hand and stroked his forehead. He took a handkerchief and cleaned the man's face; there was blood. Finally the coughing passed.

  Merlin pressed on. "I don't mean to impose on you at a time like this, but Petronus has described the excellence of your workmanship. Might I view some examples? You see, we are a new abbey, and we are still amassing our treasure. If we could . . ."

  Beliveau feebly pointed to a wooden cabinet, then sat up and reached into the pocket of his garment and produced a key. "Security," he whispered, and chuckled. "As I said, even my apprentice was a thief. But go and look. I am flat tered." Petronus put a hand behind the man's head.

  Merlin took one of the candles and unlocked the cabinet with the key. On four shelves rested crowns and coronets, rings and necklaces, jeweled knives and swords. All of them were exquisitely worked, beautifully crafted. But there was no sign of the prototypes of the golden knives.

  Merlin examined the cabinet and then, trying to sound casual, asked about the knives.

  "Gone. Stolen." He coughed again, not so violently.

  Merlin shook his head sadly. "It is such a pity. It is not possible to trust anyone anymore, certainly not this new generation. Who do you think took them?"

  "Jean-Michel. I have given it a great deal of thought, and I don't believe anyone else had the opportunity to steal them. No one much came here. I have lived something of a cloistered life myself." Beliveau smiled weakly. "Leonilla came, now and then, to inspect the work, but no one else."

  They talked for a while more. Merlin noticed that Petronus seemed genuinely fond of the man, and genuinely moved by his condition. When, finally, he said he wanted more sleep, they left him. Merlin was certain he had learned all he could from him.

  When he got back to his own room, he scrawled a note to Martin. When we leave here tomorrow, it read, have one of the men rush back to England ahead of us. Tell him to travel as rapidly as he can, and give this letter to my assis tant, Colin.

  The letter to Colin was brief and to the point. Delay the trial. Arrest Jean-Michel. M.

  Ten

  At Corfe Castle the Great Hall was being stripped of the decorations from the birthday celebration and prepared for the murder trial of Lancelot. Simon oversaw the prepara tions with fussy efficiency. Meanwhile, Nimue was prepar ing the case for the prosecution.

  Arthur was impatient; he wanted his wife's false hus band out of the way, and he was anxious to do it according to the letter of the law, with all possible deference to fair ness and justice. But time was dragging on. A warrior at heart, he wanted action.

  "It shouldn't be hard to convict him, Colin," he com plained. "He was caught with blood on his hands."

  "Do you really want to trust me with the prosecution?" she asked. "I've never done anything like this before. Be sides, I'm less and less certain Lancelot is guilty. Of Leodegrance's murder, perhaps, but what possible motive could he have had for murdering Podarthes? And poor Marthe?"

  "Maybe she was another one of his mistresses. You know these damned Frenchmen. They screw everything that lets them."

  "He was securely locked up when she was killed."

  Arthur glared. "Then he put Guenevere up to it. Damn it, Colin, I want them found guilty."

  "This is supposed to be about justice, not vengeance, remember?"

  "Stop talking like Merlin."

  "If what you want is the two of them out of the way—or even dead—then just do it. You're the king; no one can stop you."

  This deflated him for a moment. "Merlin has taught you too well. I suppose . . . I suppose we can wait till he gets back. But . . ."

  "Yes?"

  "I hate this. I've told him so. Things were so much sim pler before this 'new England' of his. No, of ours. Has he taught you this new game he calls chess?"

  "Yes, of course."

  "It's all the rage on the Continent, they say. The game pieces represent us—kings, queens, knights, castles." He laughed. "There is even a piece called a bishop, for that fool Gildas. And to win the game, it is necessary to keep as many pieces in play as possible. Even a murderous queen has her uses. Taking her—or her lover, for that matter—out of play could weaken me, eventually."

  "Are you talking about a game or about life?"

  "The two get confused." He sighed heavily. "I suppose we can delay the trial for a few more days. Let us hope Merlin gets back soon."

  Most of the remaining delegates had left in the time since Merlin departed for France. A great many of them asked curious questions about where he had gone; the few mem bers of Arthur's court who actually knew kept silent. Most pointedly, Eudathius and his Byzantines had lingered at Corfe, claiming their boat needed a great many repairs but inquiring quite often about the state of the prosecution of the supposed killer of Podarthes, about Merlin's whereabouts and about anything else they could think of. There had been an incident involving one of their men. He had committed sexual assault on a servingwoman and was promptly arrested by two of Captain Dalley's guards. Eudathius had protested loudly that the man's diplomatic status gave him immunity from arrest under English law. But Arthur had had enough of them; his patience was too short for anything other than a speedy arrest and imprisonment. "We can deal with at least this one minor criminal, can't we? At least?" He told Dalley and Britomart, "I want him dealt with quickly."

  "You may not do this, Your Majesty," Eudathius wrote in a formal complaint. And he followed up with a personal protest. "International law, Your Majesty—"

  "International law hardly sanctions rape. At any rate, Eudathius, Merlin is my principal advisor on matters of diplomatic protocol, and he is unavailable at the moment."

  "May I ask where he is and when he will return?"

  "You may not. He will be here when he can. I can tell you nothing more. You may go." He smiled sweetly. "Oh, and one word of advice."

  "Yes, Your Majesty?"

  "Don't ever try to tell a king there is something he may not do. It never works."

  Plainly v
exed by this upstart king's impertinence, Eu dathius made a slight bow and left. But the matter gave him a plausible excuse for remaining in England. He and his party settled in for what might prove a long stay.

  Arthur worked out his frustrations with wrestling matches and footraces with his knights, who, like him, were feeling restless. Sagramore spoke for them when he com plained one day after a vigorous bout of wrestling. "Arthur, we were summoned here to form a jury. So far there is not even a hint of a trial."

  "Of course there are hints. Take a look in the Great Hall. You must have noticed it's being readied."

  "That's housekeeping, not a trial. We—"