J. Blair - The Excalibur Murders

“Merlin made him king.”

“That’s what they always say, but I don’t believe it. Every time the man opens his mouth he spits dust.”

She had finished her breakfast.

“We’ll talk later, then.”

“Fine.” He turned his attention to his breakfast.

At Camelot, Merlin had located several more servants who remembered who and what they’d seen that night. Greffys had been enormously helpful to him. But there was still nothing indisputable, nothing that might hold up at a trial. One serving girl saw Mark in the hall that led to the king’s tower. And another remembered Lancelot propositioning her. Two more had run into Mordred. And an unsurprising number remembered seeing Pellenore dashing about the castle on one of his weird quests.

It occurred to him that Petronus might know something useful. The boy had recovered quickly, but Merlin had insisted he return to his room, if not his bed, and remain there. He didn’t want him drifting about the castle, prying into things that were none of his business; he had come from Guenevere’s court, after all.

He found Petronus in bed and to appearances unhappy about it.

“Good morning, Pete. How are you feeling today?”

“Restless. I keep watching the other squires exercising down in the courtyard. Let me join them. Please.”

“Soon, perhaps. There are some things I want to ask you about.”

The boy sulked. “I don’t know anything.”

“Don’t take that attitude.”

“You think I’m too dull to know I’m healed. If I don’t know that, what can I know?”

“Know that I can have you shipped back to Corfe.”

“Oh.” He pouted. “Please don’t. I don’t want to go back there. Britomart has promised I’ll be a proper squire with her, not just a glorified valet.”

“I wouldn’t like to send you back, but if you are going to be uncooperative…” He spread his hands apart in a helpless gesture, as if to ask, what can I do?

“What do you want to know?” He asked it with all the ill grace of an adolescent boy who was not getting his way.

“I want to know what you remember about King Mark’s visit to Corfe.”

Petronus blinked; he seemed to be concentrating. “Which time?”

“He’s been there more than once?!”

“Yes, at least five or six times in the last year, I think.” He sat on the edge of his bed.

“Be certain. It is important.”

He focused. “Yes, definitely at least five times, and maybe more.”

“You’re quite certain?”

“Yes. Of course.”

“Do you know why?”

He shook his head. “He kept having private meetings with Queen Guenevere.”

“And who else?”

“Lancelot. And her father came over from France the last two times.”

“Would you be willing to testify to that? To the king, I mean?”

“Certainly. But-”

“Excellent. You’ve been more helpful than you know, Petronus.”

“Thank you, sir. But I still don’t understand.”

“You may have helped me solve two horrible crimes.”

Confusion showed in his face. “But-”

“We’ll talk more. Now I’m off to see Arthur.” He got up to go.

“Have you heard from Britomart at all?”

“No. But I’m sure she and Colin are fine.”

“Are they friends? I mean, I… I… they seem to…”

“Yes?”

“I wouldn’t want her to take Colin as her squire instead of me.”

“I don’t think you have to worry about that. Colin is not the man he seems.”

“I don’t understand.”

“And that, Petronus, is just as well.”

“May I leave this room now?”

Merlin hesitated.

“Please, sir. I can’t stand being confined here.”

Again Merlin said nothing.

“You haven’t put me under guard. You haven’t had to. I could have left anytime I wanted to, but I followed your orders. Doesn’t that count for anything?”

“Listen to me, Petronus. Things are more complicated here than you understand. You’ll be free soon enough, if everything works out.”

“And if it doesn’t?”

“It will. We both have to believe that.”

Late that night, a strange woman moved through the halls of Mark’s castle. She wore a clinging, diaphanous gown; her breasts were almost fully exposed by the low cut; and her bright blond hair was covered by a sheer veil. She walked lightly, almost like a spirit. A large candle illuminated her way through the half-lit corridors. No one who saw her paid her the least attention, despite all the security. She had gotten in, after all, so she must be there legitimately. Drafts in the castle made her gown flow and flutter. One startled serving-woman thought for a moment that she was seeing a ghost.

Slowly, she made her way through the castle till she came to Mark’s quarters. A guard was on duty; his face, too, had been scarred by acid. He was used to young women being summoned to the king’s bedroom late at night; they exchanged a few words, and without hesitation he let her go in.

The room was nearly dark; only one candle burned in the far corner; there were no drafts and it burned steadily. Mark was lying on his bed, more drunk than she’d seen him before. He was half-undressed and only half-conscious, it seemed, and he was muttering something barely audible. Nimue smiled. This was precisely the state she’d hoped he’d be in.

Groggily, he looked at her. “That candle is almost as large as my sword.”

She smiled. “It doesn’t weigh much.”

“Who are you?”

“My name is Eleanor. You told me to come, remember?”

“I did?” He tried to focus on her, without much success. “You work in the kitchen.”

Another smile. “That’s right.”

With a small struggle he sat up on the edge of the bed. “Come here and sit by me.”

Lightly, with a little laugh, she did so. He put an arm around her. “Pretty girl.”

“Handsome king.” She hoped he was too drunk to notice the irony in her voice. Or to act on what were, quite clearly, his intentions.

He caught her by the shoulders and tried to kiss her. And she let him. He tore at one sleeve of her gown and kissed her naked shoulder. Patiently, she permitted it.

Then, gently, she moved a few inches away from him. “Everyone says you should be king.”

Baffled, he looked around the room. “I am.”

“King of England.”

“Oh, that. That is being taken care of. It is only a matter of time. Come over here and let me feel your breasts.”

She backed off another few inches. “You must hate Arthur for taking your rightful place.”

“Arthur is a fool. And so are you, if you don’t let me make love to you.”

She resigned herself to being pawed and moved back beside him. He fondled her stomach. “Pretty girl.”

“You said that already.”

“Pretty!” He shouted it with force. “I want you.”

“Here.” She stood up. “Let me get you another cup of wine.”

She crossed the room to a little table and poured it, and she added a sleeping powder Merlin had given her. Now she had to hope he would talk before it took effect. When she handed the cup back to him, he took it and drained it in one long drink. This pleased her, though she was careful not to let it show.

“Arthur.” He said the name with contempt. “He’s a better general than I am, but that’s all. All this rubbish about peace and harmony in England-who could take any of it seriously? ”

“Not me, sire.”

“No. But he’s king. My people work the mines and refine the ore. My people die. And all the profits go to Camelot. Next year our vineyards will turn a profit.” He looked at the empty cup in his hand and held it out to her; she dutifully refilled it. “And all the damned money will go to Arthur. Arthur. Arthur. His army hangs over us, a constant threat. Did you know there are actually people who call him the Sun King? Because of his damned blond hair, I imagine. Blond hair is for women, like you. No real man is so fair. The king’s mines. The king’s wineries. I’m the king. I’ll have them back soon enough. Come here and kiss me.”