J. Blair: The Excalibur Murders

Off in a corner of the refectory were two men, dressed in dingy clothes, clearly not nobles or even servants; these were laborers and it was unmistakable. Merlin approached them and shook their hands, and they all sat down together.

Their conversation was loud, uncharacteristically so, and people all around eavesdropped, most of them not trying to hide the fact.

“You understand what you’re to do?”

“Yes, sir,” said one of the men. “But-”

“Good. And you know which one I want, right?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Excellent. The other one was mutilated beyond hope. He would hardly be an apt subject.”

“But, sir, we’ve never done this before. It’s ugly; it’s not right.”

“It is for a good purpose. You may rest assured of that.”

“No good can come of a thing like this.”

“It will.”

This exchange had piqued the curiosity of everyone within easy earshot, which was precisely what Merlin wanted. “Have you had a good breakfast?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. Then go, now,” he told them. “The ground is frozen. It will be hard work, and it may take a good part of the day. I will see that the king rewards you amply.”

“Thank you, sir.” The two men rose and left.

Guenevere and Lancelot had been eating a few tables away. The queen could not restrain her curiosity. She got up and crossed to Merlin. “Fraternizing with the lower orders, Merlin?”

“They are good men, and I am no snob.”

She bristled at the implied criticism. “What was that all about?”

“Nothing, Guenevere. I was just taking care of some preliminaries for tonight.”

“Preliminaries?”

“Necessary steps. These things cannot be done haphazardly, you know. Everything must be arranged properly.”

Lancelot joined them. “What things? Who were those men?”

“Why, I thought you would recognize them. You’ve seen them before. And you’ve given them enough work.”

Guenevere snapped, “Don’t be coy with us, Merlin. Who were they?”

He smiled. “Why, the royal gravediggers, of course.”

“The-!”

“I don’t believe I’m hungry, after all.” He smiled at them. “I’ll just be going. Enjoy your meal, Guenevere.” Walking away, he added, as if it were an afterthought, “You too, Lancelot.”

For the rest of the day the castle was abuzz with gossip about Merlin, Arthur, the gravediggers and anything else that could support more than cursory speculation. Everywhere either Merlin or Nimue went, people plied them with questions, all of which went tactfully unanswered.

Merlin noticed that Morgan and Mordred remained in their rooms all day, having meals brought to them instead of dining with everyone else. “I don’t know whether to find it suspicious.”

He decided to pay them a visit. Beaming, overflowing with hearty good will, he went to Morgan’s chambers.

She was in a foul mood. “These rooms are drafty. I’m freezing.”

“This is a castle, Morgan. What do you expect?”

“If you’re going to work miracles with that damned crystal skull, why don’t you bring on spring?”

He was smug. “In time, Morgan.”

“In time spring will arrive on its own.”

“Such skepticism from the high priestess. I am shocked.”

“What do you want here, Merlin?”

“Why, no one’s seen you all day. I only wanted to make certain you are all right. And where is that handsome son of yours?”

“Mordred is reading. He has a new copy of Lucretius.” She added pointedly, “A distinguished skeptic from the ancient world.”

“I am perfectly aware of who he was, thank you. But- should you encourage your son to doubt? He might get into the habit.”

She had had enough of this. “I want to know what you’re up to, Merlin. I’m told you were conspiring with the royal gravediggers this morning,”

“Up to? Conspiring?” He was all sweet innocence. “Why, I am simply doing the king’s bidding. He wants a spectacular miracle to impress everyone with his power. The Stone of Bran will make that possible.”

“Nonsense. Arthur wants to use the religious impulses of his people to strengthen his position in the country. But neither he nor you is used to doing that. You may find you’re getting into more trouble than you realize.”

“Is that a threat, Morgan?”

“Let us call it a friendly admonition. I hardly have to threaten you. Neither of you understands what you’re doing. ” Her voice turned hard. “Abandon this foolishness. Do a few conjurer’s tricks and send them all home. There will be no resurrection.”

“Will there not?”

“No.” She was quite serene in her confidence.

“But, Morgan, the people have been promised a miracle.”

Mordred came in; he had clearly been eavesdropping. “A miracle? There is no such thing, Merlin, and you know it perfectly well. The idea that a bit of polished rock might restore life to the dead…”

“Not might-will.”

Morgan stood. Tall and imperious, she pointed a finger directly at Merlin’s head. “Stop this charade. Announce the truth.”

“The truth? You mean the ‘truth’ that only a priestess can work wonders? Really, Morgan, your threats are so toothless. ”

“They are not. You know perfectly well what I mean.”

He got wearily to his feet. “Have you brought your chest of poisons, then?”

“Chest of-” She batted her eyelashes like a demure girl. “Why, sir, I possess no such thing. But if I did…”

“Yes?”

“I would make certain I knew what I was meddling with.” Her voice took on a hard edge.

“I see. Yes, I suppose you would.” He started to go then turned back to her, grinning. “Have a pleasant day. And you too, Mordred. If the cold becomes too much for you, let me know. There are shawls and blankets I can send. Older women are so frail.”

“Get out of here, you horrible fraud.”

“Yes, ma’am. I’ll see you at court tonight.”

That evening there was a huge feast in the dining hall, which was decked out with evergreens and hung about with large colorful banners and tapestries. Musicians played, mimes performed, jugglers juggled. Roast beef, goose, mutton and veal were served in huge quantities. More to the point, wine, mead and ale flowed like water. This was standard at the Midwinter feast, but Merlin suggested that keeping everyone well lubricated would be an advantage.

There was a small head table at which Arthur and Merlin sat. It was on a dais, high enough for Merlin to watch everyone but not so high as to be intimidating. Guenevere, Morgan and Mark and their people were seated at tables just below Arthur’s. Arthur was dressed in his best finery and wore Excalibur at his side; it was the tangible sign of his kingship and had been polished to a shimmering brilliance.

Merlin noted with satisfaction that Mark was drinking heavily. So was Lancelot; and Guenevere downed more than her share of mead. Only Morgan seemed to be abstaining. She sat beside her son, eating fastidiously, not talking, not looking around the hall even occasionally.

Merlin commented on it. “Such self-possession doesn’t seem quite human.”

“That is my sister you’re talking about.” Arthur bit into a flank of beef. Then glumly, he added, “Well, half sister. She’s always been that way. I think if she smiled or showed pleasure she’d vanish in a puff of smoke.”

For an instant Merlin was tempted to ask Arthur about the incest rumors about him and Morgan, but he decided not to do anything that might disrupt the king’s mood.

At one far corner of the refectory, the two gravediggers sat, eating and drinking heartily like everyone else. Noticing them, Arthur nudged Merlin with an elbow. “Look. They’re getting drunk.”