J. M. C. Blair_Merlin Investigation_01 Read online

  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?”

  He seemed puzzled by the question. “He’s the king.”

  Britomart was applying severe pressure to Ganelin’s arm. Finally, he cried out in pain and she let him go. Rubbing his arm, he sat next to his brother. “Serving the king is an honor, Colin. You should know that.”

  “An honor.” Nimue was deadpan. “Of cou
rse it is.”

  Robbed of her diversion, Britomart waved lightly and went off to join another group of knights.

  “Yes,” Ganelin said emphatically. “We’re virtually the only ones beside the king himself who have access to his private chambers.” He gestured toward Camelot’s tallest tower, which everyone simply called the King’s Tower. “He keeps all his most precious things there, even Excalibur. How could we not be honored?”

  “And he’s going to keep the Stone of Bran there, too.” Borolet was caught up in his brother’s enthusiasm. “Have you seen the shrine Pastorini’s making for it? Pure silver, all worked in intricate designs. It’s an exquisite thing, and Arthur will be placing it in our care.”

  “Silver? Where on earth did he get it?”

  Borolet shrugged. “Arthur’s the king.”

  “Suppose it turns out to be just a stone?”

  He didn’t like the sound of that at all. “It won’t.”

  “I envy you your simple faith, Borolet.” Nimue looked up at Merlin’s tower. He was there at the window, watching them and scowling. She waved at him and he pulled back inside.

  “I think I’m due for my Latin lesson,” she announced to the twins. “Merlin’s looking stern.”

  Borolet looked up at the tower; Ganelin head-butted him. “Stay and wrestle with me.”

  “Thanks, but I really have to be going.”

  “You should train. Don’t you want to be a knight?”

  “No.” She said it with heavy emphasis.

  “You talk like a girl.”

  She bristled at this. “Which girl did you have in mind, exactly?”

  Abashed, he apologized. “Sorry.”

  “I’ll see you both later.” Nimue crossed to the castle’s entrance and climbed the stairs to Merlin’s tower. He was there, waiting for her. Three of his ravens were perched in a row along the edge of the table as if they were scolding her for paying more attention to a red-haired, bare-chested twin than to her lessons.

  “Merlin, Britomart knows about me. Did you tell her?”

  “Of course not. How do you know?”

  “She as much as told me just now.”

  “I’ll talk to her and see.” He gestured to a scroll on the table. “See how you do translating that.”

  “What is it?”

  “Ovid. The Art of Love. I don’t think you have to worry about Brit. I know her pretty well, and she can be trusted.”

  “I hope so.”

  “She’s my closest friend. And she’s politician enough to know that if you spread a secret around it loses its value. But I promise I’ll talk to her as soon as I can.”

  “Thanks. I’m having too much fun to have this end and go back to Morgan’s court.” She wrinkled her nose at the scroll in her hand. “The Art of Love. Why does that seem out of place at Camelot?”

  He scowled at her. “The king’s marriage is the king’s affair. Mind your Latin.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “That’s difficult stuff. You’ll have to concentrate.” But after a moment he couldn’t resist asking. “Are you smitten with one of the twins?”

  She nodded and smiled, grateful for something to focus on other than Augustan Latin. “But don’t worry. It’s my mind I want to develop right now. I’m not ready for another betrothal, and I won’t be for a long time.”

  This caught him by surprise. “You were betrothed?”

  “Yes.” Her voice took on a bitter edge. “To Mordred.”

  “Good God.”

  “Exactly. Why do you think I fled Morgan’s court?”

  “I had no idea. Mordred! What a ghastly marriage that would have been.”

  “We’d have been as cold and distant as Arthur and Guenevere. ” She smiled sweetly.

  He frowned at her again, even more deeply, but rose to the bait. “Theirs was a political marriage, not a love match. Her father, Leodegrance, is a minor king in France. He thought the union would open up opportunities for grabbing land and money here. And Arthur thought the same thing in reverse. It wasn’t long before they reached a stalemate.”

  “Poor Guenevere.”

  “Poor, nothing. She went into it with her eyes open, as an agent for her father’s interests. As soon as she realized she would never get one up on Arthur, she moved out, found a convenient castle and set up her own court. Why she chose Corfe . . .” He wrinkled his nose. "Is there an uglier castle in England? They don’t call it the Spider’s House for nothing.”

  “At least she had the good grace to realize that a queen of England ought to live in England. She could easily have returned to her father. Give her credit for that.”

  “I understand there is bad blood between her and her mother, Leonilla. But she never stops scheming, Nimue. I spend half my time trying to anticipate her plots. She’d do anything to bring Arthur down. And it isn’t just a matter of her father’s business, now. It is personal.”

  “I hear she’s coming for the consecration ceremony.”

  “Splendid. As if we won’t have enough chaos to deal with.” One of the ravens flapped its wings and flew out the window. “Guenevere has a pet ape. It is always with her; she keeps it on a silver chain. A lot of people have fun trying to tell the difference between it and Lancelot.”

  “I’ve seen the queen but never him. Is he . . . ?”

  “An athlete. Tall, blond, strong, handsome and dumb as a sack of rocks. In one way it’s not hard to see why she took him as her lover. In another . . . I’ve never understood why so political a woman as Guenevere would choose a man with no connections. No thoughts.”

  “Maybe she enjoys the change.” She held out the scroll. “Somehow this isn’t the kind of thing I want to read just now.”

  He turned thoughtful. “No. I suppose it isn’t.” He searched the scrolls on the shelf nearest him and held one out. “Here, this might be more the thing.”

  “What is it?”

  “The Golden Ass.”

  She laughed. “Are you talking about this book or Lancelot? Or Arthur?”

  “Stop it. I tried to make friends with Guenevere when she first came here. She’s a smart woman. Very. But when it became clear she’d never stop working against Arthur— against us—I put some distance between us. There is a lesson there for you.”

  “Yes, sir.” She turned her attention unhappily to Latin.

  The weather turned harsh and stormy. Percival had been expected at Camelot within a week or so of sending the news about the Stone of Bran. As it turned out he was delayed at the Mersey River, which was swollen and impassable, for nearly ten days. Then he contracted influenza and was confined to bed for another five.

  Arthur grew more impatient each day without his relic. “Where is he?” he grumbled to Merlin and Mark. “Every-one’s on edge.”

  “Try and look at it in a positive way,” Mark counseled him. “If nothing else, the delay is giving Pastorini time to construct a shrine that’s genuinely worthy of such an important artifact.”

  “And to waste more of the country’s treasure.” Merlin couldn’t resist adding it.

  Arthur glared at him. “I want my stone. It will unify us all, it will stop all the fighting and bickering. I’m so tired of it all. No one knows that better than the two of you.”

  “Cheer up, Arthur. If the stone really is what you say it is, maybe it will work a miracle, cure Percy and transport him here.”

  “Stop it, will you?” He turned to Mark. “There was a report of a French raid on Dover. Guenevere’s father, most likely. Is there anything to it?”

  “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.”