J. Blair - The Excalibur Murders

They all bade him good morning, and he left. Mark took his wine cup again. Everyone in the room turned to Merlin.

“It seems we have several clear suspects.” Ticking them off on his fingers, he went on. “Morgan and her party, especially Mordred. Guenevere and hers, particularly Lancelot. Pellenore. But there must have been others who left the hall before Borolet was-before the crime happened. And as Ganelin rightly suggested, there may be key people who simply avoided the ceremony. We need to find out who.”

Nimue had been listening, taking everything in. “I’m fairly certain I saw Gawain heading for an exit.”

“Good observation. Did anyone else notice anything?”

“That damned Frenchman, Accolon. He left.” Mark had never trusted him.

“Good. And anyone else?”

They stared at one another blankly.

“I think we have to assume there must be one or two more.” He turned to Ganelin. “Can you ask among the servants, then, and see if they can tell us where any of the suspects were? And whether there are any others?”

“Of course. I’ll be happy to. Give me a day or two, all right?”

“That will be fine. Meanwhile, the rest of us can begin to question the various possible culprits. Obliquely, indirectly. We don’t want anyone to know we’re investigating.”

“People will guess.” Mark sounded impatient with it all. “A crime has been committed at Camelot. At the seat of government. That makes it much more serious than any ordinary murder. Whatever the motive, this strikes at the heart of England’s government and stability. We must find the assassin and bring him to justice as quickly as possible.”

“Of course, Mark.” Brit was finding him annoying. “I’m sure we all share those concerns. They must have occurred to each of us. Until we find the killer, Arthur himself is in danger, and so is everyone else at court.”

Mark started to bicker with her, but Merlin got between them and dismissed the little council. “Thank you all for coming. I’m sure Arthur is grateful to have us working together. ” He hoped his point wasn’t lost on Mark. Then he gestured to the window. “We’re lucky in one way, at least. Look-more snow. From the look of the black clouds in the west, another storm is coming, possibly worse than the one last night. If I’m right, no one will be leaving Camelot for at least a few more days.”

“Splendid.” Mark slammed his cup down on the table and got to his feet. “More of this damned overcrowding. I’m sharing my quarters with two elderly knights from Dover. They smell of flounder.”

“It is a gift, Mark. Let us take it and use it to our advantage. ”

Mark scowled and stomped out the door. For the hundredth time Merlin found himself wishing Arthur’s knights wouldn’t drink so heavily. He asked Brit if she had anything more to add, but she said no and left. To Nimue, she said, “Thanks for the wine, Colin.” She said it with a wink, and Nimue looked at Merlin as if to repeat, She knows about me.

Ganelin lingered by the door. He seemed to be screwing up his courage. “May I ask you something, Merlin?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Well, why can’t you just use your magic powers to divine who did the-who-who did that to my brother?”

Merlin rolled his eyes skyward. “I am not a wizard, a magician, a sorcerer, a shaman, a warlock or anything else of that sort. When am I ever going to convince people of that?”

“All the knights say you are. They say for anyone to be as wise as you-to know as much as you do about so many things-is unnatural. It could only come from something dark, something hidden.”

“The knights are fools, most of them. And drunken fools at that. What they don’t understand, they make mysterious. But reason-understanding-is the key to every mystery. Even your brother’s death. You’ll see.”

“I-I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to offend you.”

“You didn’t. But the next time the knights start spreading rubbish about me, you tell them the truth, all right?”

“Yes, sir. Thank you again, sir, for letting me join the hunt.” And he left.

Nimue took a seat at the table and unrolled an old scroll. Merlin turned toward the window. “The snow’s coming down more heavily already. This will get bad. I don’t know whether to be pleased.”

“Maybe you can use you magic powers to stop it.”

“Shut up and study your Greek.”

“Yes, sir.”

As Merlin expected, the storm got bad. Waves of ice fell, coating everything. Soon all of Camelot was encased in it. When he looked out his window, Merlin could see it glistening; it was almost blinding in the early light. Then came snow, more and more of it. At times it fell so quickly it was not possible to see more than a few feet ahead. Within two days there was nearly a foot of it. The world was soft, white and horribly cold.

It was sufficiently early in the season that the servants had only just begun to prepare the castle for winter. They went to work energetically, hanging tapestries, distributing extra firewood and blankets, plugging up the sources of the worst drafts.

Because of the ice and the frozen ground it was not possible to bury Borolet. Merlin saw that his remains were placed in the deepest, coldest storeroom in the castle basement, not far from some unoccupied dungeons. With luck they would keep there till the ground thawed.

By evening of the third day Arthur and Merlin began to realize that food was running low. Winter supplies had not yet been laid in. Arthur ordered rationing, which of course made the castle’s occupants even edgier than they’d been.

Just before dusk that day Guenevere tried to leave again.

Merlin warned her she wouldn’t get far, but she was determined.

“Arthur won’t permit it, Guenevere. The gates are locked.”

“My men will deal with the guards.”

“There is no point.”

“I am the queen. That gives it point.”

Her people met in the stables, saddled the horses and loaded the pack animals with what provisions they could collect.

But the party was not halfway across the courtyard when the horses began to lose their footing and panicked. One of them slipped, fell and broke its leg. It whinnied horribly with the pain, trying to get up; but the more it struggled, the greater its agony. Finally, Lancelot got a large knife, stood over it and cut its throat. The animal’s blood steamed in the cold air and turned the snow on the ground bright red. It kicked fiercely, but its energy soon drained away and it was still.

Merlin watched it all from his window. And it seemed to him that Lancelot had taken unnatural relish in what he’d done. The knights were all trained to kill, and they all seemed to enjoy it, or rather the prospect of it. Lancelot seemed born to it.

A while later Arthur asked Merlin to join him as he visited the queen in her chambers. She had had a suite of three rooms assigned to her. Blankets were spread on the floor for servants; two young men snoozed, undisturbed by the people around them. In one corner several packs were stacked, apparently unopened.

She was dictating a letter as they arrived. Arthur asked who she was writing to and what about. She was cold. “Private correspondence is exactly that-private.”

Arthur looked around. “Privacy? You’re joking.”

Her face was stone. She said nothing but took the letter and waved her secretary away.

“Guenevere, I must ask that you not try to leave again until weather conditions improve. My knights and the castle staff are busy enough dealing with all this. There’s no reason they should have to enforce common sense.”

Her ape scampered into the room and jumped to her lap. Then it turned to Arthur and Merlin and let out a sinister hiss.