J. Blair: The Excalibur Murders

She went on a bit more, apparently oblivious to the fact that most of her audience was too tipsy to follow a long speech. As she continued, people began to talk among themselves, more and more loudly. In one corner of the hall someone actually began to sing. Several times she mentioned “my beloved son Mordred, beloved of my august brother Arthur.”

Her sense of audience finally told her it was time to finish; she repeated her little benediction on Arthur and England then raised her arms again to signal that the torches should be relit.

The hall broke out in loud talking, arguing, ranting. Everyone seemed to have reacted to Morgan differently. Arthur, wine goblet still in hand, got to his feet, took Merlin by the sleeve and crossed to where Morgan was standing with her son. The royal siblings hugged in a way Merlin had never seen them do before.

Close-to, Mordred looked even worse than he had at a distance. Thin, short, rickety, pale as flour, with pimples and a runny nose he kept wiping on his sleeve. He was, Merlin knew, the same age as Nimue-nearly twenty-but his small stature made him look years younger.

“Morgan, I didn’t expect you here today.” Arthur smiled a political smile.

Morgan, the would-be queen named for the death goddess, smiled in return. “Arthur, I know it. But the god moved me to attend. How wonderful all this is.” She turned to Merlin. “And Merlin. It is always so interesting to see you.”

“And you, Morgan. When was the last time?”

“It has been nearly a year.” She brushed him aside. “When will the stone arrive here, Arthur? And when do you want the ceremony?”

“I was thinking perhaps at the end of October.”

“The thirty-first! A day of power, of magic. That is quite appropriate. But why not till then?”

“There are some preparations I want to make.”

“Such as?”

“In time, Morgan. I’m sure you’ll approve.”

“This sacred object must be treated with proper reverence, of course.”

Merlin couldn’t resist. “Maybe we can have it conjure up a handkerchief for your son.”

Mordred took a step behind his mother and sniffled. “Mother says you keep ravens, Merlin. You should be more observant, then. The god Bran sometimes takes the form of one.”

“If he shows up, I’ll give him some extra corn.”

“Mother says you’re not really a magician.”

“That is nothing, Mordred. I say the same thing.”

Mordred sniffled.

Mark made his way through the crowd and joined them. “Hello, Morgan.” Like most of Arthur’s men, he didn’t like or trust her.

“Mark. How nice to see you. But you must excuse me. The full moon will be rising shortly. I really must be going.”

With that she turned and swept out of the hall followed by Mordred and the servants who’d worked the “magic” with the torches.

Merlin watched her go, frowning. “Are you honestly impressed by all that flummery, Arthur?”

“She is the hereditary high priestess, Merlin. And my sister, a member of the royal house. These things matter.”

Mark spoke up. “What was it you wanted to ask me, Arthur?”

“Ask you?” He drank some wine.

“You told me to find you after council, remember?”

He didn’t remember and it showed. The strain of thinking was evident in his face. Then it came to him. “Oh- metal!”

“Metal?”

“You have skilled metalsmiths in Cornwall, don’t you?”

“Yes, of course, but-”

“Send for one of them. The best of them.”

Merlin was as baffled as Mark seemed to be. “What on earth do you need a tinsmith for?”

“Not tin, Merlin,” he said in a loud stage whisper. “Gold or silver.”

“What on earth-? At least wait till you’re certain the thing’s real.”

“I want to have a precious shrine made to house the stone. It’s the least a divine relic deserves, don’t you think?”

“Oh, naturally.” He didn’t try to hide his irony.

“You need to learn reverence, Merlin. It ill becomes a man of learning to be such a cynic.”

“The Cynics were a respected school of philosophy in Greece. ‘The Cynic questions everything in order to learn what is true.’ ”

“This is not Greece.”

“I’ll say it isn’t.”

“Even though we drink like the court of Alexander the Great.”

Mark got between them. “I have a particularly skilled metalsmith in my service, a Roman named Pastorini. I’ll send him to you as soon as I get home.”

Merlin found it too exasperating. “If you’ll excuse me, Arthur, I’m due to give Colin a lesson.” He added sarcastically, “In Greek.”

“Go, then.” He handed his goblet to a servant. “Get me more wine.”

The weather stayed warm and dry despite the change from summer to autumn. The knights were able to keep up their outdoor exercise much later in the season than they would have normally. But thick banks of black clouds were beginning to build up in the western sky. That more than anything else-more, even, than the trees turning color-seemed to presage the coming winter.

Borolet and Ganelin were exercising in the castle courtyard. Except for the fact that Borolet’s hair was a lighter shade of red, they were quite startlingly identical, so much so that Nimue could only tell them apart when they were standing side by side. Of the two, Borolet was much more somber and taciturn; it was Ganelin she found appealing. He had the better physique and was the better athlete. He almost always had the advantage over his brother.

She sat on a stone bench and watched them wrestling, stripped to the waist and covered with sweat. The light of the half-obscured sun, dimmed as it was by the clouds, lit their bodies sharply, outlining them in brilliant detail. She couldn’t take her eyes off them.

“Colin, you should come join in. Exercise is good for you.” Borolet wiped some sweat from his eyes and took a deep breath. While he was off guard Ganelin caught him by one leg and dropped him to the ground.

Nimue laughed at the sight. “I’m no athlete, Borolet. If Ganelin did that to me, I’d crumble.”

Ganelin got a headlock on his brother. “You would. But you’d love it.”

“Not as much as you’d think.”

Borolet pulled free and pinned Ganelin. “Why’d you come down here, then?”

“I enjoy seeing half-naked twins.” She laughed.

“If I thought you meant that…”

“Yes?”

“Never mind.”

Britomart came walking across the courtyard to them and sat down beside Nimue. “Hello, Colin.” There was a slight sneer in her voice when she said the name. “Enjoying the show?”

“How could I not? They’re the most beautiful men at Camelot.”

Brit was wry. “Except for the king, of course. He’s the handsomest by definition.”

“Of course.”

The brothers said hello to her then went back to their contest. Brit leaned very close to Colin and whispered, “You ought to be more careful. You’ll give yourself away.”

Caught off balance by this, Nimue stammered, “I don’t know what you mean.”

“No.” Brit grinned. “Of course not.” She got up and crossed quickly to where the brothers were wrestling and caught Ganelin in an arm lock. He struggled, apparently mortified that a woman had gotten the drop on him.

Borolet came and sat down beside Colin. “You really ought to work out with us, Colin. You could make a good knight.”

“I’m a scholar, Borolet.”

“You could be both.”

She shrugged. “That would be a good novelty, at least. Will the two of you be at the consecration ceremony?”

“Of course. We’ll be attending the king.” He smiled. “It’s an important occasion and we’ll be part of it.”

“Don’t you ever get tired of waiting on him?”