The Excalibur Murders

by J. M. C. Blair

  They were now nearly alone in the hall, Arthur, Merlin, Mark, Britomart, Nimue and Ganelin. Nimue stood back from the others, not knowing what to say or do. All of them watched Arthur, waiting for some indication of what he was thinking and feeling.

  Mark moved close to the king, looking grave. “We’ll find him. We’ll find the assassin.”

  “Will we?” Arthur muttered. It was not so much a question as a resigned statement.

  Merlin had never seen his king look so lost. “Arthur, I-”

  “I want to be alone. All of you, please leave me. I want to take a walk and think.”

  Britomart spoke for the first time. “Are you certain that’s a wise idea, Arthur? There’s a killer loose in Camelot.”

  “He got what he wanted. He got the shrine and the sword and the crystal skull. He killed the boy with my sword. What more could he want?”

  “We don’t know why the killer did what he did. He could have had any motive at all.”

  “Brit is right, Arthur.” Merlin forced himself to keep his voice calm and steady. “There are a dozen reasons why this might have been done. Out of greed, for political advantage, out of hatred or jealousy of you…Stay inside. Stay in your rooms, guarded.”

  Mark added, “I can have guards posted immediately. We have to keep you safe. If we should lose you…” He let the thought trail off unfinished.

  Arthur looked from one of them to the next. “Come walk with me, then. I need fresh air. I need the night.”

  “It’s getting cold outside, Arthur.” Brit took a step toward him then seemed to think better of it. “Stay here where it’s warm.”

  “Do you suppose it’s warm where Borolet is?”

  “Let us get swords, then.” Mark spoke forcefully. “Let me call guards. I won’t have you wandering around alone.”

  “All right. Get them.” He looked to the rest of them as Mark went. “I never thought I’d need guards in my own castle. In my wildest imaginings I never thought such a thing.”

  Britomart and Ganelin said they were going to their rooms to get weapons, leaving Merlin and Nimue with the king.

  Suddenly, Arthur turned animated. He rushed to the nearest wall, took a torch and began going about the room, lighting the ones that had been extinguished. “We want light. What happened, happened in darkness. With more light the boy would be alive.”

  “Arthur, stop it!” Merlin caught him by the arm. “That isn’t so and you know it.”

  He pulled free violently. “Let me go! I want light in here!”

  Merlin stood back, alarmed, and let the king go on lighting the room. By the time the others got back it was ablaze with torchlight. Lit, it seemed vast and much more empty than it did in near-darkness.

  Mark returned with a dozen soldiers; he left them by the door and rejoined Merlin.

  “I’m worried, Mark.” He kept his voice low. “This isn’t at all like Arthur. We’ve seen him in crisis before. He’s lost battles, lost whole regiments and not acted like this.”

  “That was out in the world.” Mark studied the king. “Not in his home. The dead were anonymous, not his squire.”

  Suddenly Arthur turned to them. “Let’s go.”

  Six of the soldiers took the lead. Arthur, Merlin and the others followed, trailed by the remaining guards. The party moved quickly through Camelot’s winding corridors. There was no talking.

  The halls were filled with people. Somehow news of the murder had leaked out; presumably, one of the guards had said something. Everyone was buzzing about it, speculating, gossiping. They stood, some in small groups, some in larger ones, watching the king’s progress. No one seemed to take it as reassuring.

  From nowhere Pellenore came galloping down a hallway, directly at the king. “Beware, Arthur, beware!”

  Arthur’s party stopped and waited for him to reach them. He had, to appearances, been running all over Camelot; there was sweat on his forehead, and his clothes were soaked with it. Arthur caught him by the shoulder and made him stand still. “What the devil is wrong with you? For once, Pellenore, try and act like a normal man.”

  “Normal?” The old man staggered a bit and Arthur steadied him. “How can anyone behave normally? Don’t you know what’s happened?”

  “I know only too well. I-”

  “The beasts, Arthur, the beasts. They’ve begun to kill. If we don’t vanquish them, we’ll all be dead before long.”

  Merlin planted himself in front of the mad old man. “We’ll all be dead eventually anyway, Pellenore. Let the beasts do what they will.”

  “No! I have to stop them. No one else can. And no one will believe me.” With that he drew his sword and sped off down the corridor.

  For a moment everyone stood looking at one another, unsure what to say or how to react. Finally Nimue spoke up. “Poor old man.”

  “Poor old man, nothing,” Mark said. “I often think he’s only pretending to be mad, and now I’m sure of it. How else could he know about the death tonight?”

  “Everyone knows.” Merlin sounded tired; he wanted all this to end.

  Arthur got between them. “Come. We’re on our way outside, remember?”

  At the main entrance two other guards stood on duty. Mark had a quick word with them and left two more of the cohort with them for extra security.

  The courtyard, unlike the castle, was quite empty. The night was cold, unseasonably so, and no one had thought to bring winter clothing. There were heavy clouds; the moon was a bright pale patch through them. Merlin felt a drop of rain and looked up; the sky was ominous. “Winter weather,” he muttered. “Too soon.”

  One of the guards from the front gate said to Mark, “She hasn’t left yet, sir, if that’s who you’re looking for.”

  “She?”

  “The queen. Her party is assembling at the back of the castle, by the stables.”

  “The queen?!” Merlin shouted. “We mustn’t let her leave.”

  Sparked into action, Mark took two men and went to look. He came back quickly and walked straight to the king. “She’s leaving, Arthur. She, Lancelot, all their servants. The horses are being loaded now.”

  Loudly, Merlin said again, “She mustn’t. Arthur, you can’t allow her to go. Not till I’ve had time to question her and her people about the killing.”

  “Guenevere is a vindictive, loveless woman, Merlin. But I wouldn’t like to think she’s behind this.”

  “Don’t be naïve, Arthur. She-” He was going to remind the king how much his wife hated him, but he caught himself. “If not she herself, then Lancelot or one of her servants. Any of them could have a hand in this.”

  Sounding even more sad than before, Arthur told him, “You’re right, I suppose. Let’s go and talk to her.”

  Mark spoke up. “I’ll have the guards close all the gates. They won’t get out.”

  At the rear of Camelot, Guenevere was overseeing preparations for the journey home. Her carriage, small but ornate, was harnessed to four black horses. Packhorses were being loaded. Two dozen servants worked busily. One carried an unfurled banner bearing the queen’s arms.

  She herself stood on the carriage’s step, watching, giving orders, making certain everything was done to her satisfaction. Her ape perched on her shoulder and cried, apparently unhappy to be in the cold. There were torches; the rest of the courtyard was in darkness made deeper by the clouds.

  “James,” she said loudly to one of the servants, “get me another cloak.”

  Lancelot, ever the chivalrous gallant, took his own off and wrapped it around her shoulders. The ape jumped onto his back.

  “Guenevere!” Arthur tried to resume a tone of command, not quite convincingly. “I must ask you to remain here for the time being.”

  “Why, Arthur! How nice of you to come see me off.” She was the picture of sweet composure.

  A sprinkle of large, heavy drops of rain came and went quickly. Merlin looked to the sky again. There would be a storm. Guenevere looked skyward as well. “I wish
I had time to talk, but we really must be on the road before the rain comes.”

  “Did you hear me? You are not to leave.”

  She let out a girlish laugh. “Is that authority you’re trying to convey? You lost the right to talk to me that way years ago. Arthur, I have to return to Corfe. I have a castle of my own to tend to, remember?”

  “The guards will not let you out of the courtyard, Guenevere. Send your people back to their rooms.”

  “But, Arthur.” She feigned innocence well; she was every inch the French coquette. “Camelot is so crowded.”

  “Even so.”

  Mark took a step forward. “Your Majesty must know how unwise it is to travel by night. There are bandits- cutthroats.”

  “Then perhaps you’ll be good enough to provide me with guards.” She lowered her eyes. “My poor throat is so delicate.”

  Before Mark could respond to her irony, Lancelot stepped forward from among the servants where he’d been seeing to his horse’s saddle. “We can handle any brigands who might dare attack the queen’s party.”

  Then for the first time Arthur spoke like a king, with a sense of command in his voice. “Your swordsmanship is precisely the issue, Lancelot. Guenevere, you are not to leave. This is an order.” He smiled. “Departure will not be permitted.”

  “Don’t be a fool, Arthur. There are three times more people than the castle can hold. Food is running out already.”

  He turned to Mark and ordered him pointedly to post more soldiers. Then to the queen he said, “Go back to your rooms, Guenevere. If you don’t go now, and voluntarily, you will do it under guard.”

  Lancelot stepped toward him, his hand on his sword, obviously angry. Two of Arthur’s men drew their own swords, as did Mark, Britomart and Ganelin.

  Guenevere stepped serenely between them and put a hand on Lancelot’s arm. Servants scrambled to get behind one another. “You would never dare hold us prisoner, Arthur,” Lancelot snarled.

  “Do you think I’m afraid of the scandal? If I can weather the gossip about you bellying the queen, I can certainly weather this.”

  Looking more than mildly alarmed, Lancelot and Guenevere stepped into the carriage and talked hastily. A moment later she emerged, smiling lightly, and told her husband she would remain for another day, no more. “But I warn you, Arthur, we are to be treated as guests, not prisoners. ”

  “Is that a threat?”

  “Let us say it is a request. A firm request.”

  Arthur turned to Britomart. “Take two of the men. Go and spread word that the queen will remain in residence.”

  Smirking, Britomart asked him, “As a guest?”

  “As a guest.” Glancing at the queen he added, “A royal guest.”

  Merlin leaned close to Nimue and whispered, “A royal pain would be more like it.”

  The rain began to come down steadily. Mixed with it were occasional particles of ice. It stung faces and hands.

  Arthur watched as his wife, her lover and their servants were herded back into the castle by his soldiers. To Mark he said, “I should have let her go. This storm will get bad. She’d never have gotten far in it, and I’d have had the pleasure of hearing her ask for shelter.”

  “Would you have given it?”

  “Not until she begged or became waterlogged.”

  A moment later everyone went back inside. Arthur asked them all to meet in Merlin’s rooms the next morning, to discuss what had happened that night and plan how to find the assassin. “I won’t rest till we find him. Borolet must be avenged.”

  “Suppose it was the assassin who you just sent back into your castle?” Merlin asked.

  It caught Arthur off guard. In fact it seemed an impossible thought for him to confront. “Would that be worse than letting her go free?”

  “She was trying to leave for a reason. To leave by dark of night,” he added emphatically. “And without saying a word to you or anyone else. Is it wrong of me to find that suspicious? ”

  “You find everything Guenevere does suspicious.”

  “Only because it is.”

  “I’m going to bed, Merlin. I need a good night’s rest. We all do.” To everyone he announced, “We’ll meet after breakfast. In Merlin’s quarters.”

  After midnight the rain became heavy. Then a cold wave blew down from the north and turned it to ice and snow.

  Like all castles Camelot was full of drafts. Cold air rushed through the halls and chambers, wailing mournfully like an invasion of ghosts. Tapestries blew in it; rickety old furniture wobbled noisily.

  In his bedchamber Merlin woke, freezing. He got up, threw four logs on the fire, which gave the only light in the room, then opened a huge old wooden chest and rummaged about till he found a coverlet made of wolf hides. It was thick and warm, and he wrapped it around himself as he walked back to the bed.

  But the wind was howling too loudly for him to get back to sleep easily. He got up again, went and stood by the fire, rubbed his hands together and wondered aloud why people ever chose to live in places where the weather got this unpleasant.

  There came a soft knock at the door. He opened it to find Nimue, wrapped in a blanket and shivering. “I’m sorry to wake you, Merlin.”

  “You didn’t.”

  “The fire in my room went out and I don’t have any tinder to relight it.”

  “Come in. Mine is burning high and hot.”

  “Thanks.” She entered hurriedly. “Say what you will about Morgan, she always keeps her castle warm.”

  “That’s a good trick. How does she manage it?”

  “Only she and the gods know.”

  “Let me get us some wine.” He opened a cabinet and took out a bottle and two cups. “Fire only warms the outside. ”

  Nimue took the wine gratefully. “I hate winter.”

  “And it’s not even here yet. This is only a foretaste. I hope it doesn’t mean winter itself, when it gets here, will be worse.”

  “What an awful thought.” She drank deeply.

  “It must be my age, but every year I have a harder time believing spring will actually come.”

  Nimue drained her cup then walked to the window. “Where would you live, given the choice?”

  “I don’t know. Alexandria is warm but noisy. There’s something wrong with every place, I suppose.”

  “I hate winter.” She looked outside.

  “You might stop saying so.”

  Camelot sat atop the highest hill for miles around. There was a wide, wonderful view of the surrounding hills and forests, all white from the weather. And there were breaks in the clouds though it was still snowing. The moonlit world was ghostly.

  Then something caught her eye. “Merlin, look.”

  Fifty feet away from them rose Camelot’s tallest tower, the one where the king resided. Two windows looked from his bedchamber out over the castle and beyond. And both windows were lit brightly. The figure of the king was unmistakable in one of them.

  The sight startled Merlin. But he told her, “He’s restless, that’s all. You saw how the murder affected him.”

  “Yes.”

  Then another figure appeared beside him, male, shorter than he. For a moment they stood side by side. Then they embraced.

  Seeing it made Merlin uncomfortable. “I have a flint and some wood shavings. Let’s see if we can’t get your fire relit. ”

  Nimue lingered at the window for a moment, fascinated. She watched as the two figures pulled apart and the light went out. Then she went with Merlin. Her room was just below his in the tower, but her windows faced the opposite direction. He was glad of that. When he managed to reignite the fire, he said good night and went back up to his own chambers.

  The room was warmer now. He put another log on the fire, hoping the warmth would last, got into bed and wrapped himself in wolf fur. But sleep would not come. Too much was happening. Too much that was unexpected and made no sense.

  Early the next morning they began to arrive at Merlin’s chamb
ers.

  The snow had stopped, but occasional flakes still danced in the air, glinting in the grey diffuse light from a heavy cloud deck.

  Most of the windows in Camelot were either unglazed or permanently sealed shut with glass. The glass was crude, not at all smooth or clear, which made windows inconvenient. But Merlin had contrived to have the window in his study hinged, for the ravens. They would come and peck at it to be let in or out. Sometimes the hinge would stick and the window would have to be forced, and sometimes as a result the glass would crack and need replacing. But in weather like this he was glad he’d installed the hinge.

  First thing that morning all three of the birds were outside the window, tapping earnestly. He let them in and fed them some stale bread crumbs. Then they gathered near the fireplace, though not too close.

  Mark arrived first. He gave every indication of having slept well and soundly despite the night’s events and the pervasive chill. “Good morning, Merlin.”

  “It is not a good morning. This is only the beginning of November. It’s way too early in the season for this kind of weather.”

  Mark beamed. “I love the cold.”

  “You’re a dangerously unbalanced man.”

  “Relax, Merlin. It’ll warm up again.”

  “Maybe the weather will. I’m not at all certain that I will myself. Cold has a way of settling deep in my bones. When that happens nothing warms me up but soaking in a hot tub of water for a long time, which I find equally unpleasant.”

  Mark pulled up a stool and sat with his legs up on the table. “You’re getting old.”

  “Arthur always tells me I was born old.”

  “He has a point.” For the first time he noticed the ravens, huddled a few feet from the fire. “You’re still keeping those damned birds.”

  Merlin scowled. “Colin is supposed to bring some warm spiced wine. That’ll help warm us up.”

  “Wine always helps everything.”

  “You’re one of Arthur’s men, all right.”

  As if on cue the door opened and Nimue came in, carrying a large pot of steaming spiced wine. “Good morning. Let’s put this near the fire before it gets cold.”