J. Blair - The Excalibur Murders

“No. It turns out it was just a trading ship that was blown off course. You know the weather in the Channel.”

Merlin decided he had needled him enough. Arthur’s desire for some peace at court was quite understandable if not exactly realistic, given his style of governing. But it seemed politic to let him find it out on his own. When the stone arrived and proved to be… a stone, Arthur would realize quickly enough how foolish this enterprise was.

Then finally, more than two weeks after he was expected,word came that Percival was about to arrive at Camelot.

He had always struck Merlin as an unlikely knight. Short, plump, heavily bearded, he was not exactly the picture of chivalry. And he was not over his illness; he coughed nonstop.

But he had the stone with him, and that was all Arthur- or most anyone else-cared about. The king and a small circle of his closest advisors waited anxiously in Arthur’s chambers in the King’s Tower. Arthur paced; the others watched him.

There was always a guard on duty outside the rooms and another at the foot of the spiral steps that led up to them. People filed past them one by one, to wait in the king’s private study. It was where he kept his most precious belongings. In a case fronted with leaded glass rested Excalibur, the sword that was the emblem of his kinghood. It was crusted with gemstones, and somehow, improbably, a shaft of light lit it brightly.

Percival left his horse in the care of a servant and went directly up to Arthur’s rooms. He carried the stone in a flour sack, which hardly seemed the way to transport a powerful relic. Arthur, Mark and Merlin were there, attended by Nimue, Borolet and Ganelin. Out of breath from the climb and covered in dirt, Percy said nothing but produced the thing with a flourish.

And it was not impressive: roughly skull-shaped, caked with mud and soil.

Merlin touched a fingertip to it and scraped away some of the dirt. “I think it might be some dark variety of quartz, or perhaps obsidian. Not the easiest stone to carve. Assuming it is carved, that is.”

“So you admit it might be miraculous?” Arthur was pleased with himself and his knight and the stone he’d found.

“I admit it might be carved. Let me see it work a miracle. Then I’ll admit that.”

“In time, Merlin, in time. Morgan is studying all the old legends about it. She’ll know how to unleash its power.”

“Of course.” He didn’t try to hide his exasperation. “Arthur, how can you trust her? She never stops plotting. She wants to be queen.”

“She’s a member of the royal house, Merlin. Plotting is what we do. I can handle her.” He grinned. “I always have.”

Mark picked the stone up and tossed it in his hand a few times. Some of the dirt flaked off. “It’s heavy.” He looked at Arthur. “Like gold.”

Percival seemed pleased that the king liked his find. “It was buried in the corner of an old ruined barn.”

“How miraculous.” Merlin grinned sarcastically.

“Stop it, Merlin.” Arthur took the stone and handed it to Ganelin. “Here. Place it in the cabinet next to Excalibur. It will be safe here.”

Ganelin took it, unlocked the wooden case and placed the stone carefully on a shelf.

Arthur beamed. “The Stone of Bran. I never really believed we’d possess it. But just look at it.” Torchlight glistened on its surface. “The ceremony is in five days. I need to check with Morgan and see if she needs anything special for it.”

“I’ll go to her,” Mark volunteered.

“She doesn’t like you.”

“I know.” He smiled impishly. “But the stone gives us a common interest.”

Before Arthur could respond to this, Merlin spoke up. “Then go, by all means.”

And so with no more fuss the gathering broke up. On the way back to his tower Merlin told Nimue, “Miracles. He wants miracles. Well, it will be one if we get through this without all looking like fools.”

The night before the ritual Camelot was full. People had come from all over England to see the spectacle. Knights and nobles were packed in like the poor, two and three to a bed. They grumbled; such accommodations were beneath their station and dignity. But there was nothing to be done.

Merlin was in his tower, reading. A raven perched on his shoulder; two more rested on the table in front of him. He heard someone on the stairs. There was no knock, but the door flew open rather violently. He looked up, startled; the bird on his shoulder flew away. “Guenevere. You came.”

Imperious despite her short stature, dark as Arthur was fair, the queen looked around as if she’d never seen anything as strange as the contents of the room. She was approaching middle age but looked younger. “You’ve taken over my old apartments.” Though she had been in England for years her French accent was still strong.

“You moved out.” He got to his feet and added in an ironic tone, “Your Majesty.”

Guenevere had her pet ape with her. It scrambled to the table and chased the two remaining ravens, which flew away in alarm. Then it tried to jump at Merlin, but its chain was too short.

Merlin scowled. “You ought to teach that beast better manners.”

“I shall,” she announced imperiously, “require my rooms while I am here.”

“You wouldn’t like them anymore, Guenevere. The bed only holds one.”

She ignored the dig. “Nevertheless, you will please take your things and go.”

“Arthur assigned me this tower. I’m afraid it’s up to him.”

The queen glared. “This is a royal order.”

“Not from my royal. This isn’t Corfe, Guenevere. You’re a guest here, not a queen, not as far as I’m concerned.”

“Merlin, I am ordering you out of these rooms.”

“And when Arthur seconds that order I’ll obey it.”

The ape lunged at him again, and Guenevere pulled on its chain. The creature returned to her unhappily.

“This will all crumble someday, Merlin.”

“Camelot is as solidly built as any castle I know.”

“Not the castle. You know perfectly well what I mean. Arthur’s little empire. He’s not fit to rule. No one here is. And when Arthur falls, I will be waiting at Corfe to pick up what’s left and reassemble it. And I promise you, there will be no room for scholarly quasi-wizards.”

“Fair enough. But I can’t shake the feeling you’re always doing what you can to hasten that fall. Aren’t you?”

She smiled a tight, patient smile. “I will have these rooms again, Merlin. Just wait.”

“Perhaps. Perhaps not. As I said, it’s Arthur’s decision. Good-bye, Guenevere.” He couldn’t resist adding, to the ape, “Good-bye, Lancelot.”

She froze; she turned to ice. “Do you really think there is any point throwing that in my face? Do you honestly believe you can make me feel ashamed? We could populate five counties with the bastards Arthur has fathered.” She sneered. “English morality.”

“Is it worse than the French kind?”

“I am living for the day when I can prove it.”

With that she turned and left, pulling the reluctant ape after her. She did not bother to close the door. Merlin did so; it wouldn’t do to have his ravens fly that way and get lost in the rest of the castle.

Morgan took over the Great Hall. Her people, under Mordred’s supervision, arranged the torches and candles according to some prearranged but mysterious plan. A high dais filled one side of the room, with three steps leading up to it. Chairs for the audience were carefully arranged, apparently with the object of giving everyone a good sight line.

Merlin and Nimue watched the preparations for a few minutes, not certain what to make of it all. Seeing them, Morgan joined them.

“You’re turning this room into a theater worthy of Aeschylus.” Merlin was suitably impressed. “Is it for the Stone of Bran or yourself?”