The Excalibur Murders

by J. M. C. Blair

  “I am the high priestess of England, chosen of the gods. Remind Arthur of that. To permit anyone else to officiate at a holiday as important as Midwinter would cause a scandal, to say the least.”

  “Of course. I’ll be certain to tell him.” He decided to take a shot in the dark. “Oh-by the way?”

  “Yes?”

  “What was Mark doing here?”

  She showed no reaction. “You know about that?”

  So he had been there, as he had been at Corfe. “It is not easy to keep intelligence from Arthur, Morgan. You should know that.”

  “Or from you?”

  “If you like.”

  “Mark wants to be king. You must know that, or suspect. Arthur is a fool to keep him in a position of power.”

  “And he wants you to… to do what, exactly?” He smiled a politician’s smile.

  “If you are so adept at gaining intelligence, you shouldn’t have to ask. Good day, Merlin. Have a nice journey back to Camelot.” Suddenly she narrowed her eyes. “Where is that woman you came with?”

  “Britomart? I imagine she’s exercising with your knights.”

  “I hope so. Good day, Merlin.”

  Brit had agreed to look for Mordred while Merlin kept the boy’s mother occupied. She found him in the library, reading a book.

  “Knowledge, at the court of Morgan le Fay, Mordred? Surely superstition is the thing. Or religion-assuming there’s any difference. I’d be careful. You may be setting a dangerous precedent.”

  “It’s only one of Caesar’s war commentaries.”

  “You’re a warrior, then?”

  “No, a historian.” His guard was up; his tone revealed it.

  “Oh. I see.”

  “Court life doesn’t really suit me. I’ve always wanted to go to Alexandria, to see the great library there.”

  “Merlin’s been there. Did you know that? In fact he lived there for a while.”

  “Really? I’ll have to ask him about it.”

  “I’m sure he’ll be happy to tell you all about it.” In a confidential tone, she added, “He likes to talk.”

  “So does Mother. There are times when I’d give my entire inheritance for a bit of peace.”

  “Tell me, is she really a witch?”

  “She really thinks she is,” he whispered. “Doesn’t that come to the same thing?”

  “Why hasn’t she married you off yet? You are the royal heir, after all.”

  “I was betrothed for a time. But I’m not really interested in women. I think the girl understood that. She ran off.”

  “Just between us, I’m not really interested in men.” Her tone was confidential, but she was smiling.

  Suddenly Mordred seemed to relax. “Marriage… it seems so unnatural to me.”

  “To me, too.”

  “I always felt sorry for the poor girl.”

  “You have a reputation for being disagreeable.”

  Suddenly he put his guard up. “I imagine I am, to most people. I want to be left alone with my books, not bothered with ritual and protocol and backstabbing plots and all the other rubbish that fills Mother’s world.” He sniffled and wiped his nose on his sleeve. “And Uncle Arthur’s. And yours, for that matter.”

  But she saw the opening she wanted. “Yet everyone says you and Lancelot were off whoring together the night of that ceremony at Camelot.”

  “When that boy was killed?” He seemed to find it odd. “No, I left the Great Hall that night, looking for the privy. And I got lost-Camelot is such a bewildering place. But I did see Lancelot. He said he was going to the kitchen and asked me if I wanted to join him with the girls there.”

  “You didn’t, though?”

  “I needed the privy.” He sounded mildly embarrassed; then suddenly his tone shifted. “What madman architected Camelot? Even for a castle it’s quite impossible. I mean, no one in his senses would choose to live in a castle. They’re all unbearable. But Camelot-!” He wrinkled his nose, as if that gesture said what needed to be said. “Uncle Arthur must be insane to live there. They say he took the place from mad old Pellenore. That says it all, doesn’t it?”

  “I imagine so.” Brit decided that, against all probability, she could learn to like Mordred. Or at least she wanted to. He wiped his nose on his sleeve again, and she remembered who and what he was.

  And he seemed to remember to put his guard up. “You aren’t married. Women should be.”

  “So should princes.”

  “Not scholar-princes.” His tone was defensive but hushed. “I swear, someday I’ll run away to Alexandria.”

  “You really should talk to Merlin. I think the two of you might get along, if either of you would give the other a chance.”

  “Merlin is my mother’s enemy. And the enemy of religion, or superstition as he calls it. You too.” His habitual suspicion was returning.

  “Is it so awful to think human affairs should be governed by reason?”

  “Human beings aren’t reasonable creatures. That is why we need the gods. We are capable of reason, but how often do we make our decisions based on it?” He leaned back in his chair and assumed an air of nonchalance. “No, it’s to be Alexandria for me. They say the library’s walls are lined with books thicker than the stone they’re built of.”

  “I imagine so.” She stood to go. Mordred’s moods shifted so quickly she didn’t think she’d learn anything else useful from him. “Well, I’m going to get some exercise. Would you like to join me?”

  “No thank you.”

  “Until later, then.”

  “Have a good day, Britomart.” He smiled at her. “Go and bother someone else for whatever it is you want to know.”

  There was dense fog the next morning. Merlin suggested delaying their return to Camelot. But Brit for some reason was anxious to leave. “The roads are marked. And we have our escort; they’ll find the way.”

  No one saw the party off. Morgan claimed to be occupied with court business, and there was no sign at all of Mordred. So the carriage and its escort set off through the thickest fog any of them could remember. The sound of the horses’ hooves was deadened by it; the entire world was quiet. Accolon and his men talked in muted voices.

  Merlin started another of his panegyrics on life in sunny Egypt, and Brit lapsed into daydreams; she had heard him rhapsodize about Alexandria often enough. But he kept up, and she decided to voice her annoyance. “Don’t the Egyptians live among the corpses of their ancestors?”

  “They do not forget their past, if that is what you mean.”

  “It sounds perfectly morbid. And they believe in magic. You should have picked up a few pointers while you were there.”

  “I saw enough charlatans taking in the gullible to have a fair idea how it is done. Is that what you mean?”

  “It’s no fun trying to needle you, Merlin. What did you learn from Morgan? Anything useful?”

  “She told me Mark had been there. But I couldn’t get her to say why.”

  “Mordred admitted he’d left the Great Hall on the night of the first murder. He says he got lost in the halls.”

  “I suppose that is plausible. Camelot is a bewildering castle.”

  “And he says he met Lancelot, who was on his way to the kitchen for some illicit lovemaking.”

  “We’ll have to see if we can find anyone who saw him.”

  “Did you know Mordred was betrothed once? He says the girl ran away.”

  “Imagine.”

  “I asked around and got a good idea when she left. Where did Colin come from, Merlin?”

  “Don’t pry, Britomart.”

  They came to a place where the ground was soaked and the fog was even more dense than it had been everywhere else. Accolon looked into the carriage and told them they’d be slowing down.

  “Not too much, please.” Merlin said he wanted to make Camelot by sunset tomorrow, if possible.

  “We’ll do our best. But the ground is treacherous.”

  “We’re
anxious to get back to Camelot, Accolon.”

  “Yes, sir. But-”

  “But what?”

  “We are being followed again.”

  “Splendid.”

  A moment later the sounds of scuffling came from outside the carriage. Swords clanged; voices were raised. Accolon shouted orders.

  Merlin and Brit looked out to see they were surrounded by a dozen or more armored soldiers. Brit drew her sword and jumped out to join the fight. She, Accolon and their men fought bravely and managed to disable three of the attackers. Slowly, patiently, Merlin stepped outside onto the soft, damp ground and reached into his pocket. When one of the attackers came at Merlin with sword drawn, he produced one of his glass globes and smashed it into the man’s face. The man screamed, covering his face with his hands, and stumbled off into the fog. But his sword had pierced Merlin’s thigh, and some of the acid had burned his hand.

  Unruffled by the commotion around him, Merlin walked around the carriage, tossing more globes in the faces of the attacking knights. One by one they screamed, covered their faces and lurched off into the mist. Soon the skirmish was over. One of Accolon’s men was badly wounded; the rest were all right except for minor cuts.

  Britomart was quite all right. Out of breath, she joined Merlin. “I’ll never scoff at your little marbles again.”

  “Science and reason defeat brute force every time, Brit.” He bent down and washed his burning hand in a puddle.

  “Nonsense. It worked for you this time. But if there had been more of them…”

  “There weren’t.”

  “There might easily have been. We were lucky.”

  “You and the others fought bravely, Brit. Bravely and skillfully. We all won this fight. Now let us get moving again before more attackers appear.”

  “There won’t be any more. We’ve beaten them. And they have no way of knowing how many acid globes we have.”

  “A good deterrent, then.”

  “But we’ll have to be watchful until we reach home.”

  Slowly, Accolon restored order. The wounded soldier rode in the carriage with Merlin; Brit rode his horse. And despite the fog and the unsteady ground, the party made good time. There were no more attacks.

  They arrived at Camelot late the next night. The next morning, well rested, they met in Merlin’s study. He was walking on a cane and seemed unconcerned about it, and the acid burns on his right hand were bandaged. Nimue asked what had happened, and Brit explained.

  “Will you be all right, Merlin? I wouldn’t like to see you walking on that stick all the time. Will your hand be scarred?”

  “At my age, what difference does it make?”

  “That’s an absurd attitude to take.”

  Brit couldn’t resist adding, “So much for a life based on reason.”

  But Merlin ignored them and unrolled Ganelin’s chart. “Now. Let’s put this together with what we’ve learned and see if we can’t make sense of it.”

  SEVEN. TIN, WINE AND SILVER

  “Now let us see. We think these triangles, which wander aimlessly all about the castle, represent Pellenore. Does that assumption make sense to both of you?”

  Brit and Nimue nodded.

  “Good. Then there are these stars, which also drift around but only on one side of the Great Hall. I surmise those stand for Mordred, right?”

  Again, they indicated their agreement.

  “And there are the crosses. If we were to connect them in a continuous line, we’d find them heading in a somewhat roundabout way for the refectory. Those may very well be Lancelot. That leaves our Mr. X. The Xs go in a more or less direct way toward Arthur’s tower, where the killing took place. And our most probable guess for his identity is Mark of Cornwall.”

  “But Merlin,” Nimue said, “the key word in what you said is guess. Arthur wants proof. He’ll never agree to convict anyone based on guesswork with nothing concrete to back it up. Suppose the crosses are Mordred and the stars Lancelot? How can we prove it one way or the other?”

  “We have statements from the suspects themselves. And we have what the servants saw, or in Gretchen’s case, more than simply saw.”

  Nimue smiled at this.

  “But there must be more of them. Ganelin would not have marked this chart without some basis. There must be more servants we have not identified yet who saw one or more of our suspects that night. I intend to find those servants. Ganelin found them; I will, too.”

  “But-” Something was bothering Brit and it showed. “We are still simply assuming Mark is the fourth suspect. We don’t know. No one saw him, that we know of. Suppose it’s someone else? Or suppose that trail of Xs goes somewhere other than to Arthur’s tower? The chart doesn’t extend that far. And suppose Mark really is Mr. X as you call him. Just because a servant saw him in the corridor is hardly proof he committed murder.”

  “Well, someone saw him-or rather someone saw some-one-because the chart is marked. Whether it was Mark… well, that seems likely to me. But that is what I want the two of you to discover.” He sat back in his chair. Nimue had never seen him quite so stern; it was clear his wounded leg and hand were causing him pain. “In Cornwall.”

  Brit registered alarm. “You want us to go to Mark’s territory? After the attack we suffered?”

  “Arthur is sending official word to Mark that you will be visiting him, to discuss some military maneuvers for next spring. And you will have a larger escort than the one we had. He won’t dare harm you.”

  “If he is the villain.” Brit said this emphatically.

  “He is.”

  “How can you sound so confident?”

  “Because, Brit, of the attack on you, or on Petronus, at the garrison in Corfe. The guards were killed. They would never have let Lancelot get that close to them. Or anyone else, for that matter. Except Mark. They would have recognized him as the commander of the army, and they would have let him approach, never expecting him to strike them.”

  “Good point.”

  Nimue studied the chart, looking doubtful. “But still, we’ll be terribly vulnerable.”

  “You have the advantage of knowledge. Mark doesn’t know that we know.”

  “He must suspect, at least, or why follow and attack us?”

  “He knows we know he’s up to something. He can’t possibly know we think he is the murderer. And as I’ve said before, the very fact that the man we suspect is also the head of the king’s armed forces makes for a very delicate situation. How can we know what kind of loyalty he has among the other commanders, and among the troops? I can’t tell you how deeply I hope I’m wrong about this. But everything I know suggests Mark is the one.”

  “I can find out about the other commanders.” Brit was looking increasingly unhappy. “I can make some discreet inquiries, among knights I know I can trust.”

  “When you get back from Cornwall. And remember, you mustn’t do anything to force Mark’s hand. Be subtle, be indirect and pick up whatever you can learn. Use all the guile you have.”

  “Guile isn’t much good against armed swordsmen, Merlin. ”

  “No, but it is priceless against blunt stupidity.”

  “Why do I not find that comforting?”

  “Arthur will provide a large enough escort to keep you safe. Discover what you can.”

  Looking unhappy, or at least severely dubious, Nimue and Brit rose to go. Just as they were leaving, Merlin said, “And Colin? Use all the guile you have.”

  “Uh… yes, Merlin.”

  Nimue followed Brit down the stairs, past the spot where she’d found Ganelin. Suddenly Brit turned on her. “What did he mean by that?”

  “I-I don’t know.”

  “Who are you? Where did you come from?”

  “I don’t know what you mean. My name is Colin. You know that.”

  “There has been talk about a young woman who fled from Morgan’s court. Mordred’s betrothed. She disappeared about the time you came here.”

  “N-no.”r />
  Merlin appeared at the top of the staircase. “Come back here, both of you.”

  Slowly, sullenly, they climbed back to his study.

  He closed the door behind them and leaned against it, wincing from the pain in his leg. “Now, Brit, what exactly are you suggesting?”

  “Someone from Morgan’s court may be here in Camelot. And there have been murders. Can you not guess what I’m thinking?”

  “Colin was with me in the Great Hall when Borolet was killed.”

  “Are you certain? You yourself just said that he’s full of guile.”

  He sighed sadly and looked at Nimue. “Tell her.”

  “But I-”

  “Tell her!”

  And so Nimue confessed to Brit that she was not really Colin, not really a boy at all.

  “So you see, Brit,” Merlin added when she was done, “I’ve known all along. I’ve encouraged Nimue to carry on this masquerade.”

  Brit looked doubtful. “What have you known? How can you know what loyalty she feels to Morgan le Fay?”

  “There is no doubt in my mind. Colin-Nimue is loyal to Arthur and Camelot and everything it represents. I’ve heard her complain about Morgan’s superstitious nonsense often enough. And no one sane could want to marry a horror like Mordred.”

  Brit was unconvinced but kept quiet.

  “We can’t start fighting among ourselves, Brit. We have to trust each other. This kind of squabbling is the worst thing we can do.”

  “I suppose you’re right.”

  “I am and you know it. Time is short. Midwinter is approaching fast, and it is more important than ever. It may be the last chance we have to lure Mark here unsuspecting.”

  “But without proof-”

  “I can provide proof. I’ve commented recently about using people’s superstitions against them. And Mark is as gullible as anyone. That will be his undoing. But we need him to come here, unsuspecting and without his guard up. Ensuring that will be your job. When you get to Cornwall, comfort him, flatter him, make him believe his position is secure.”

  “Merlin, I want to know what you’re up to. What are you planning?”

  “In time, Brit. Go to Cornwall. Everything depends on the two of you getting Mark to lower his guard.” Softly, he added, “Please. We are too far into this investigation to let it come apart now.”