“Now let us see. We think these triangles, which wander aimlessly all about the castle, represent Pellenore. Does that assumption make sense to both of you?”
Brit and Nimue nodded.
“Good. Then there are these stars, which also drift around but only on one side of the Great Hall. I surmise those stand for Mordred, right?”
Again, they indicated their agreement.
“And there are the crosses. If we were to connect them in a continuous line, we’d find them heading in a somewhat roundabout way for the refectory. Those may very well be Lancelot. That leaves our Mr. X. The Xs go in a more or less direct way toward Arthur’s tower, where the killing took place. And our most probable guess for his identity is Mark of Cornwall.”
“But Merlin,” Nimue said, “the key word in what you said is guess. Arthur wants proof. He’ll never agree to convict anyone based on guesswork with nothing concrete to back it up. Suppose the crosses are Mordred and the stars Lancelot? How can we prove it one way or the other?”
“We have statements from the suspects themselves. And we have what the servants saw, or in Gretchen’s case, more than simply saw.”
Nimue smiled at this.
“But there must be more of them. Ganelin would not have marked this chart without some basis. There must be more servants we have not identified yet who saw one or more of our suspects that night. I intend to find those servants. Ganelin found them; I will, too.”
“But-” Something was bothering Brit and it showed. “We are still simply assuming Mark is the fourth suspect. We don’t know. No one saw him, that we know of. Suppose it’s someone else? Or suppose that trail of Xs goes somewhere other than to Arthur’s tower? The chart doesn’t extend that far. And suppose Mark really is Mr. X as you call him. Just because a servant saw him in the corridor is hardly proof he committed murder.”
“Well, someone saw him-or rather someone saw some-one-because the chart is marked. Whether it was Mark… well, that seems likely to me. But that is what I want the two of you to discover.” He sat back in his chair. Nimue had never seen him quite so stern; it was clear his wounded leg and hand were causing him pain. “In Cornwall.”
Brit registered alarm. “You want us to go to Mark’s territory? After the attack we suffered?”
“Arthur is sending official word to Mark that you will be visiting him, to discuss some military maneuvers for next spring. And you will have a larger escort than the one we had. He won’t dare harm you.”
“If he is the villain.” Brit said this emphatically.
“He is.”
“How can you sound so confident?”
“Because, Brit, of the attack on you, or on Petronus, at the garrison in Corfe. The guards were killed. They would never have let Lancelot get that close to them. Or anyone else, for that matter. Except Mark. They would have recognized him as the commander of the army, and they would have let him approach, never expecting him to strike them.”
“Good point.”
Nimue studied the chart, looking doubtful. “But still, we’ll be terribly vulnerable.”
“You have the advantage of knowledge. Mark doesn’t know that we know.”
“He must suspect, at least, or why follow and attack us?”
“He knows we know he’s up to something. He can’t possibly know we think he is the murderer. And as I’ve said before, the very fact that the man we suspect is also the head of the king’s armed forces makes for a very delicate situation. How can we know what kind of loyalty he has among the other commanders, and among the troops? I can’t tell you how deeply I hope I’m wrong about this. But everything I know suggests Mark is the one.”
“I can find out about the other commanders.” Brit was looking increasingly unhappy. “I can make some discreet inquiries, among knights I know I can trust.”
“When you get back from Cornwall. And remember, you mustn’t do anything to force Mark’s hand. Be subtle, be indirect and pick up whatever you can learn. Use all the guile you have.”
“Guile isn’t much good against armed swordsmen, Merlin. ”
“No, but it is priceless against blunt stupidity.”
“Why do I not find that comforting?”
“Arthur will provide a large enough escort to keep you safe. Discover what you can.”
Looking unhappy, or at least severely dubious, Nimue and Brit rose to go. Just as they were leaving, Merlin said, “And Colin? Use all the guile you have.”
“Uh… yes, Merlin.”
Nimue followed Brit down the stairs, past the spot where she’d found Ganelin. Suddenly Brit turned on her. “What did he mean by that?”
“I-I don’t know.”
“Who are you? Where did you come from?”
“I don’t know what you mean. My name is Colin. You know that.”
“There has been talk about a young woman who fled from Morgan’s court. Mordred’s betrothed. She disappeared about the time you came here.”
“N-no.”
Merlin appeared at the top of the staircase. “Come back here, both of you.”
Slowly, sullenly, they climbed back to his study.
He closed the door behind them and leaned against it, wincing from the pain in his leg. “Now, Brit, what exactly are you suggesting?”
“Someone from Morgan’s court may be here in Camelot. And there have been murders. Can you not guess what I’m thinking?”
“Colin was with me in the Great Hall when Borolet was killed.”
“Are you certain? You yourself just said that he’s full of guile.”
He sighed sadly and looked at Nimue. “Tell her.”
“But I-”
“Tell her!”
And so Nimue confessed to Brit that she was not really Colin, not really a boy at all.
“So you see, Brit,” Merlin added when she was done, “I’ve known all along. I’ve encouraged Nimue to carry on this masquerade.”
Brit looked doubtful. “What have you known? How can you know what loyalty she feels to Morgan le Fay?”
“There is no doubt in my mind. Colin-Nimue is loyal to Arthur and Camelot and everything it represents. I’ve heard her complain about Morgan’s superstitious nonsense often enough. And no one sane could want to marry a horror like Mordred.”
Brit was unconvinced but kept quiet.
“We can’t start fighting among ourselves, Brit. We have to trust each other. This kind of squabbling is the worst thing we can do.”
“I suppose you’re right.”
“I am and you know it. Time is short. Midwinter is approaching fast, and it is more important than ever. It may be the last chance we have to lure Mark here unsuspecting.”
“But without proof-”
“I can provide proof. I’ve commented recently about using people’s superstitions against them. And Mark is as gullible as anyone. That will be his undoing. But we need him to come here, unsuspecting and without his guard up. Ensuring that will be your job. When you get to Cornwall, comfort him, flatter him, make him believe his position is secure.”
“Merlin, I want to know what you’re up to. What are you planning?”
“In time, Brit. Go to Cornwall. Everything depends on the two of you getting Mark to lower his guard.” Softly, he added, “Please. We are too far into this investigation to let it come apart now.”
And so the next morning Merlin saw Brit and Nimue off to Cornwall. Their carriage was larger and heavier-and better protected-than the one they’d used on their visit to Morgan, and a detachment of sixteen armed soldiers escorted them.
Just before they left, Nimue took Merlin aside. “I’m afraid, Merlin. She doesn’t trust me. And how sure are you that she isn’t loyal to Mark?”
“Brit is one of my oldest, closest friends here. I’m as sure of her as I can be of anyone.”
“Mark is one of Arthur’s oldest friends, remember? And Britomart thinks I’m working for Morgan.”
“I’ve noticed the tension between the two of you before. I was never certain what caused it. But it will pass. Get to know her. You’ll like her and she’ll like you.”
Uncertain, unhappy, she got into the carriage with Brit, and the column left Camelot.
Then Merlin headed to the castle library, where one of the copyists was working on something for him. “Good morning. Is it ready?”
“Nearly, sir.” The copyist was a slender young man in his late twenties. “It’s simple enough.”
“Fine.”
“Are you certain you don’t want any illuminations or enhancements? It’s so plain.” He wrinkled his nose. “Unattractive. I can do better work than this.”
“Just a plain, straightforward copy of the chart, please, with no crosses, triangles and such.”
“Yes, sir. It will be ready in an hour or so.”
“Fine. Bring it to me then, will you? I’ll be in my tower.”
Next he went to Arthur’s tower and found Greffys. “I should be ready this afternoon. You’ve explained to the servants what I want?”
“Yes, Merlin. But-”
“But what?”
“They’re suspicious.”
“Who wouldn’t be? But they must understand that we’re investigating the murders. And they must understand that they themselves are not under suspicion. Tell them that. Reassure them. I’ll do the same when I talk to them.”
“Yes, Merlin. I thought you wanted the investigation kept secret.”
“The time for that is past. I think we should be ready to begin by mid-afternoon. Bring the first of them then.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And Greffys?”
The boy had turned to go; he paused in the doorway. “Yes?”
“You’ve done a fine job so far.”
The squire beamed. “Thank you!”
And so at mid-afternoon Greffys brought the first of the servants to Merlin’s study. She was one of the kitchen girls, a buxom redhead in her early twenties. And she was plainly nervous.
“Good afternoon.” Merlin smiled in a way he hoped was fatherly and reassuring. “You are Alice?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Has Greffys, here, explained why I want to talk to you?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. You understand, my only interest is in the informationyou might be able to provide. No one thinks you’ve done anything out of line.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Excellent.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Uh… yes.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Do you remember the night of the ceremony for the Stone of Bran?”
“Yes, sir.”
“The night Borolet was killed?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Can you say anything besides ‘yes, sir’?”
“Yes, sir.”
He sighed. “You recall that night, then?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Where were you?”
“Sir?”
“When we all gathered in the Great Hall, where were you?”
“In the kitchen, sir, making honey cakes.”
“As I remember it, the supply of those ran out early.”
“Yes, sir. They didn’t tell us there would be so many people. I-”
“That’s all right, Alice. When you were finished with your duties, where did you go?”
“I-I had to go to the loo, sir.”
“And did you see anyone on your way there?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Who?”
“I saw Morgan le Fay’s son.”
“Mordred? Where did you see him?” He unrolled the copy of Ganelin’s chart. “Here. You see-this is the Great Hall and all the corridors that lead from it. Can you show me where you were when you saw Mordred?”
“Yes, sir.” She squinted at the chart; she seemed to be working to remember. Then she extended her index finger and pointed. “Here.”
“Did he say anything to you?”
“He asked me how to get to the-to the privy.”
“I see.”
“So I gave him directions and he went off-in the wrong direction. He was so lost. He was so cute.”
“I don’t believe I’ve heard anyone else describe him that way. Did you see anyone else in the hall?”
“No, sir.”
“I see. Fine. Thank you very much, Alice.”
She stood, made a shy curtsy, turned and left.
Merlin got out the original chart. The spot where she’d painted was almost exactly where Ganelin had marked one of his little stars. It looked as if Merlin’s guess had been right. Each ★ represented a place where someone had seen Mordred.
The carriage and its escort made good time on the journey to Cornwall. The weather was sunny and dry and the roads were good. They stopped at Winchester for a midday meal. Brit said she knew the town and one particular inn where the food was always good. Accolon, who was again in charge of the escort, posted soldiers outside the inn.
Nimue and Brit had not talked much in the carriage. Their mutual distrust was obvious and getting worse. Brit in particular conversed in monosyllables, and only when it was necessary. Nimue tried making chat about the weather, the countryside, anything she could think of to try to break the ice, but to no avail.
Over lunch she decided she’d had enough. “Do you really think this sullen silence is going to help us do what we have to?”
Brit took a bite of her roast beef almost aggressively. “I don’t know. But I can’t think of any reason why I should trust you, Colin.” She said the name with emphatic contempt.
“Merlin trusts me. Isn’t that what matters? He told you himself he’s the one who has encouraged me to continue this pretense.”
“I’ve been suspicious of you from the outset. From the day you arrived at Camelot.”
“What did you suspect me of? No crimes had been committed then.”
“No, but I find it impossible to trust someone whose identity is such a complete mystery.”
“You know who I am.”
“And if I’ve been suspicious, don’t you think other people must be? Your involvement in this investigation puts us all at risk.”
“I don’t see how.”
“Never mind.” Unhappy, Brit called to the innkeeper for more meat. A few minutes later they were back on the road.
Greffys brought more and more of the servants to Merlin for interrogation. And one session after another went much like the first one had gone. Some of the servants were talkative and cooperative; some were silent or nearly so, sullen and distrustful.
They had been in the hallways for various reasons- hunger, restlessness, nature’s call. Some of them had seen one or more of the suspects; most had not. But one fact emerged clearly from the first several interviews-none of them had seen anyone in the halls who might make a plausible suspect except the suspects who were already known to him. Mordred, Pellenore, Lancelot. So far he had found no one who’d seen Mark.
Then one of the stable boys claimed to have seen him. As before, Merlin showed him the copy of the chart and asked him to indicate where. The boy pointed precisely to a spot where Ganelin had marked an X on the original. “You’re certain of this? It was King Mark of Cornwall that you saw?”
“Yes, sir. I know him. I’ve groomed his horse for him.”
“And this is the spot?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And you told Ganelin about this? He questioned you?”
The boy nodded.
“Very well. Thank you. You may go.”
“Uh… sir?”
“Yes?”
“Ganelin told me my information was valuable.”
“And so it is.”
“He said you’d give me a farthing.”
“Oh.” Scowling, Merlin found his pocketbook, got out a coin and gave it to the boy. “Thank you again.”
“Anytime, sir.” Beaming, he left.
So Mark was the X. There seemed less and less room to doubt it.
But Greffys was puzzled by it all. “Excuse me, sir, but I thought King Mark was a friend of King Arthur.”
“The Hebrews have a holy book called Micah, Greffys. One of the things it says is ‘A man’s enemies are the men of his own house.’”
“But-but didn’t Arthur come to power with Mark’s help?”
“That would be a politic way of putting it. As a young man Arthur became determined to unify England. Until then it was a patchwork of tribes and confederations, all of them at each other’s throats all the time. Arthur realized that England would never progress-would never advance to par with the rest of Europe-until some kind of unity could be imposed.”
The boy seemed bewildered by this.
“Look, Greffys, there is power here. We have the population and-thanks to the Cornish tin and wine-the economic clout to stand shoulder to shoulder with any country on the Continent. We are only beginning to see the benefits that come from a unified nation, but they are real, and they will grow.”
Greffys narrowed his eyes. “And Arthur realized all this? Or was it you?”
“I had traveled widely, yes. I think perhaps I was the one who opened Arthur’s eyes to the possibilities.”
“You are the real power behind the throne.”
“Nonsense. Arthur had the military genius to make unity happen. I’m hopeless at such things.”
“Even so. You make policy for the nation.”
“Balderdash. But Arthur had a long struggle ahead of him. Warlords being warlords, they fought him. Sometimes viciously. Mark was one of the most savage. Do you know his history?”
“No, sir.”
“His father, King Felix of Cornwall, died under mysteriouscircumstances. His heir was Mark’s elder brother, Bouduin. Mark killed him and took the throne.”
“That is terrible, sir. How could Arthur ever trust a man like that?”
“That is politics. At any rate, that is politics as it has always been practiced. Mark entered into a treaty with an Irish warlord and married the man’s daughter, Isolde, to seal it. But Isolde, who was much younger, fell in love with Mark’s nephew, Prince Tristram. The two of them died, again under mysterious circumstances. So you see, Greffys, Mark’s history is bloody enough to make him a good suspect for us.” He paused, suddenly concerned. “Uh, you do understand that I’m telling you this in confidence, don’t you? None of this is to be spread around.”
“Yes, sir. But…”
“But what?”
“Well… what kind of a place have you sent Colin and Britomart into?”
The weather was as sunny as could be expected in an English winter, and warm-it might almost have been early spring, not December. Inns had delicious, ample food at reasonable prices; the wine they served was full-bodied and sweet. There was every sign they were approaching a prosperous region.
The landscape was mostly granite hills interrupted by farmland. There seemed an outsize number of crippled men on the roads-men missing limbs or walking on crutches.
Whole fields were covered with wooden trellises; Nimue had never seen anything like them and asked Brit what they were. There had not been much talk between them. But Nimue was determined to learn everything she could, even if it meant questioning someone she didn’t much like.
“They’re for grapevines. Mark’s people have figured out how to cultivate them. It’s the first time anyone’s done it in England. I assume the wine we had at that last inn was made here.”
“They always say vines can’t grow in England.”
“Look at the soil. It’s black and rich, like the soil at Mount Vesuvius in Italy.”
Nimue was puzzled. “There are no volcanoes here.”
“Brilliant observation.”
Then odd buildings began to appear here and there across the landscape. Again she asked Brit. “They’re so tall and thin. What can they be for?”
“They house the equipment for the mines. Enormous air pumps powered by bellows, and huge wheels wound with cable to lower the miners down to the lower depths.”
“It sounds dangerous.”
“It is. There are accidents all the time. You’ve seen all the cripples on the road. Arthur pays the widows a bounty.”
“Big of him.”
“Cornwall is the most prosperous place in England, and the mines are what makes it so. Bronze can’t be made without tin, and Cornwall produces the only tin in Europe. Arthur might well be bankrupt without it.”
“I see.”
Then in the distance, at the head of the Cornish peninsula, loomed Mark’s castle. It was not especially large by the standards of castle architecture, and Mark had had the exterior whitewashed and the towers painted bright red and blue, very un-castle-like; it gleamed, even in the weak winter sunshine.
As the party approached it they came to another of the mine-head buildings at the side of the road. Nimue heard machinery creaking inside, and there was a smell of chemicals in the air. Men, covered in dirt, came and went. And there was a guard post, and a barrier blocking the road.
Amid some noise and confusion-roads in Arthur’s England were not barricaded and travel was supposed to be free-the travelers came to a halt and Accolon exchanged words with one of the guards. Brit put her head out one of the windows and watched to try to make out what they were saying. There were at least a dozen guards on duty, more than seemed necessary or even reasonable. “Military men,” she muttered to Nimue. “Security becomes an obsession.”
Just as Nimue looked out, too, Accolon rode his horse up beside the carriage. “I’m afraid there’s a problem.”
“What problem could there be?”
“The say they didn’t know we were coming.”
“Even if that is true, what does it have to do with anything? This is a free nation; citizens are allowed to travel about unhampered by this kind of thing.”
She stepped out of the carriage and strode ahead to the checkpoint. “I am Britomart, King Arthur’s military advisor. ”
The guard in charge was a young blond man. He looked nervous. “Yes, ma’am, I recognize you from Camelot. Do you have orders from the king?”
“We do.”
“May I see them?”
For a instant it occurred to her that the man almost certainly could not read, and she could have shown him anything. But why risk it? “Our orders are not in writing. But we are here on official business. The king wishes me to go over plans for spring maneuvers with Mark.”
“ ‘We’?”
“Myself, my assistant Colin and our escort.”
He looked doubtful. “No one is permitted to cross into Cornwall without some legitimate reason, properly documented. I’ll have to send to King Mark. Please wait.” He conferred with one of his men, who mounted a horse and headed off toward the castle.
Brit scowled as pointedly as she could manage to show how unhappy she was then went back to the carriage, explained to Nimue what was happening and settled in to wait. “Listen, Colin. I don’t like the look of this. Blocked roads, a lot of guards where a few would suffice… It makes me suspect Merlin may be right about Mark. At the very least, this makes it more certain than ever that he’s up to something he shouldn’t be. We’re both going to have to be alert.”
“Merlin gave me some of his acid globes before I left.”
“Fine. But that isn’t what I mean. Keep your eyes and ears open. We must learn what’s going on here.”
“Merlin gave me some very specific instructions.”
“That’s good. We may have to rely on one another.”
“And our guards?” She was pleased that Brit seemed to be opening up to her but somewhat alarmed at the circumstances.
“I’m guessing Mark will put them up in barracks, with his men, while we’re quartered in the castle. Stay alert and cautious, Colin.”
“You too. Do you… do you think we can actually pull this off?”
“If we can pry Mark away from his wine and wenches, we can.”
“Don’t hope for that too hard. His women and his drink are what we’re counting on.”
“We’re crazy. This will be dangerous. If Mark even suspects…”
“Yes?”
“We could end up with our heads on poles.”
Nimue fingered the acid globes in her pocket and hoped everything would go smoothly.
More than two hours passed. Brit, Nimue and their soldiers were bored. Some of the soldiers played dice to pass the time. Nimue ambled about, talking to Mark’s men. None of them was friendly or communicative. But she noticed that one of them had a badly scarred face-scarred by acid.
Then the rider returned and conferred hastily with his commander, who then approached the carriage. “King Mark says you are welcome to join him at his castle. But he requests that you leave your weapons here.”
Brit registered shock. “I am one of the king’s ministers. Surely Mark isn’t suggesting I abandon all security.”
“King Mark-” he said the word king with special emphasis-“guarantees your safety while you are in his domain.”
“Excuse me for saying so, but that isn’t the issue.”
“Nevertheless, if you wish to remain in Cornwall, you are to surrender your weapons.”
Brit conferred hastily with Accolon and the most experienced of his men. None of them was happy with Mark’s demand, but Brit had a job to do, so there seemed little choice. Unhappily, they all surrendered their swords. The guards made a quick search of their things; happily, they didn’t recognize the acid globes as dangerous. Then, late in the afternoon, led by a detachment of Mark’s men, they headed to the castle.
Mark was waiting for them in the courtyard when they arrived. He was wearing animal skins; he might have been one of the barbarians who sacked Rome. And he was half-drunk; he held a huge flagon of mead or wine or some other intoxicant. He wasn’t wearing a sword, which Nimue took as a positive sign. “Maybe swords are banned here completely. ”
“Don’t be naïve.”
Mark greeted them heartily and claimed he was especially happy to see his second-in-command. “And how is our beloved king?”
“He is fine, Mark, and he sends his regards. And a request. I’m afraid our visit is official; we have military matters to discuss.”
“Tonight, after dinner.” He let out a loud laugh, quite uncharacteristic of him; Brit assumed it was from whatever he was drinking. Then he ordered some servants to take them to their rooms and make them comfortable. “Supper is at seven. You’ll hear the gong summoning everyone. I like big parties.”
“No wonder Arthur likes you.”
“Just ask anyone for directions to the dining hall. I’ll see you then.”
Brit’s and Nimue’s rooms were in different wings of the castle. After getting settled in, Nimue found her way to Brit’s suite. No one she met along the way would talk to her in any but the most perfunctory way. “I’m nervous, Brit. The atmosphere here is so… so…”
“Yes, it is.”
“Did you notice that soldier with the disfigured face? I think the scars are from acid. He was one of the ones who attacked you and Merlin.”
“No, I hadn’t noticed. I’m impressed. You may actually be as smart as Merlin always says you are.”
She ignored this. “Let’s find out what we need to and get out of here as soon as we can.”
“It may take time.”
A man appeared at the door and stepped in without knocking. He was short and squat, like Mark, with bright grey hair and an enormous mustache. “How are the roads to Camelot?”
“Who the devil are you?” Brit didn’t try to hide her suspiciousness.
“I am Giovanni Pastorini, King Mark’s metalsmith.”
“The one who made the shrine for the Stone of Bran?” Nimue was impressed.
“Yes, exactly. King Mark has offered my services to Arthur to fashion a sword to replace the one that was stolen from him.”
“I see.” Brit put on a politician’s smile. She was thinking she might get useful information out of him. “Well, the roads are fine, Giovanni. I may call you that, mayn’t I? Unless the weather takes a bad turn, you should travel well. When do you leave? If we finish our business with Mark quickly, perhaps you might travel with us.”
“I am leaving first thing tomorrow morning, I’m afraid.”
“Ah. Well, we’ll see you at dinner, then. We found some good inns on our way here. You’ll want to know about them.”
“I couldn’t be more appreciative. Till dinner, then.” And he left as quickly as he’d come.
Brit and Nimue looked at each other. Brit said, “It doesn’t make sense to me that Mark has imported an Italian metalsmith.”
“I remember Merlin saying the same thing.”
Brit shrugged. “Well, it’s his court. He can keep whatever retainers he wants, I suppose. And kings can be eccentric. There’s a king over in France who keeps his own royal fish breeder.”
“The more I see of royalty, the more Morgan’s court seems typical to me.”
“Let’s not get carried away. There’s a big difference between importing a metalworker and keeping a chest of poisons. ”
Mark, rather mysteriously, did not appear for supper that evening. Both Brit and Nimue noticed that Pastorini was absent, too. They made subtle inquiries, prying, probing, trying to find out something that might tell them what they needed to know. But everyone at Mark’s court claimed-or feigned-ignorance.
Finally, Brit cornered the majordomo and asked whether she’d be able to meet with Mark the next morning. “On King Arthur’s business,” she added pointedly.
The majordomo promised her he’d make certain there was room in Mark’s schedule for her and headed off to get some wine.
Mark’s court was much like Arthur’s. Knights drank too much; servant girls flirted with them. It was boisterous and colorful; Nimue said it came as a relief after Guenevere’s and Morgan’s courts. “It’s alive.”
“Yes, but with what? Have you noticed the way they all call Arthur simply ‘Arthur’ but refer to Mark as ‘King Mark’?”
“Yes, I had. I found it odd. But Mark is the king here.”
“It’s one more thing to take into account.”
Their night was empty. No one at the castle seemed to feel inclined to entertain these emissaries from the court at Camelot. Brit, uncharacteristically, got drunk. Nimue tried, without much success, to hide her disapproval.
“Don’t scold me, Colin. This is the best wine I’ve had in years.”
“Was I scolding?”
“You were, with your eyes.”
“We’re here on important business. And we may be in danger. I think we should be in our right senses.”
“Drunk or sober I’m the equal of any man in Cornwall.”
“Of course you are. But-”
“Go out and take a walk if you don’t want to drink with me.”
Nimue glared at her but decided a walk sounded like a good idea. “I’ll see you later. Be careful.”
“Be careful,” Brit drunkenly mimicked her.
The air was cold and crisp outside. The quarter moon was brilliant in a clear western sky, and there seemed to be a million stars. The Atlantic was calm; gentle waves fell on the coastline. Nimue ambled about the perimeter of the castle, enjoying the evening. Soldiers on sentry duty made their rounds; she tried making conversation, but they ignored her.
Then she saw a cloaked figure leave the castle by a rear entrance and scuttle off into the night. Intrigued, she followed. He headed quickly down the road to the nearest mine head, the one with the barricades where their party had been stopped. She followed, working to keep up.
When the cloaked man reached the sentry post he identified himself: he was Pastorini. He exchanged words with the guard on duty. They were not near enough for her to make out much of what they were saying. But she heard one word clearly, and it struck her in a way that made it seem to ring through the night: silver.
Brit went to sleep early. First thing the next morning, Nimue told her what she had heard.
“It’s quite possible.” Brit yawned and stretched. “Cornwall is made up of granite mostly. Granite frequently has deposits of various metals. The first one they discovered here was copper. But it wasn’t worth much; there’s copper all over Europe. It was when they went down deeper that they found the tin, which is more precious than they ever imagined. There are zinc, lead and iron, too, though not much of them. And maybe silver as well.” She wrinkled her nose. “Probably not a lot of that either, but…”
“So we have a motive for Mark-silver mines.”
“Tin would be sufficient motive. But I’m still not convinced he’s the one we’re after. I only wish we knew why he’d been visiting Morgan and Guenevere.”
“Let’s go see if we can find out. It’s time for breakfast.”
The dining hall at Mark’s castle was smaller than the one at Camelot. Tables were crowded together; servants bumped into one another a lot and spilled things. Brit and Nimue had seats near Mark’s, who came staggering into the hall just behind them.
“Morning, Mark.” Brit did not hide her disapproval. “You haven’t been drinking this early in the day, have you?”
He sat down and called for food in large portions. Then he turned to her. “There’s been an accident at one of the mines. The axle of the great wheel broke as the lift was lowering some men down to the lode. Fourteen were killed.”
“Oh.”
“It’s always something.”
“A crowned head never rests easily.”
Suddenly he seemed to find it odd that she was there. “So what is this about Arthur wanting maneuvers?”
“In the spring. I suggested Salisbury Plain.”
“Good suggestion. But why?” He caught a serving girl by her skirt and told her to bring him wine.
“Our spies in France have been picking up intelligence that Leodegrance may be planning an invasion. Arthur wants his forces at full readiness.” She invented freely.
“Guenevere’s father?” A thought hit him. “So that’s why she wouldn’t-” But he caught himself and broke off.
“Wouldn’t what, Mark?”
“Nothing.” He lapsed into a sulky silence. After a moment he asked her, “Do you have any ideas for these maneuvers? ”
“One or two. Arthur wants me to go over them with you. And so…” She spread her arms wide as if to say, and so here I am.
“If the army will be drilling in spring, then-”
“Yes?”
He glared at her, his eyes full of suspicion. “Never mind.”
“Really, Mark, you’ve had too much wine to discuss serious matters. Why don’t you go sleep it off? We can talk about it later.”
“Too much wine? There’s no such thing. You sound like an old woman. No, it’s worse than that-you sound like Merlin.”
“Don’t be rude, Mark.”
“Why Arthur listens to that old busybody…”
“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.”
She did not resist, though she found it unpleasant.
“What will you do to Arthur? What are your plans?”
He blinked, plainly trying to clear his head. “Who are you? You don’t work in the kitchen.”
It was easy enough to deal with. She kissed him again and whispered, “You are a beautiful man and I love you.”
And he forgot his suspicions and kissed her back. “Arthur-the wheels are turning. His days as king are numbered. ”
“You would commit treason?”
“To get back what is mine! The fool has actually sent someone here to tell me his military plans. I spent all afternoon with her.”
“What is your plan, then?” She stood and backed across the room.
“Never you mind, pretty girl. What’s your name? Why don’t you take that dress off?”
“What will you do to Arthur?”
“Come here, damn it! I want you! You said you love me. And you have to do that. I’m the king.” He staggered to his feet and tried to grab her, but she was too quick for him. He lost his balance and fell back onto the bed. Feebly, he tried to get up again, but it was no use; he would not walk again till morning, and even then he would feel the wine and the drug.
Nimue looked down on him and grinned. It had been easier than she’d hoped.
Gingerly, she left the room, smiled at the guard, told him to have a good night and made her way back to her own room. In moments she was out of her gown and back in Colin’s male attire. It felt good. She had only worn the gown for an hour, but being back in male things felt wonderful. She stuffed the gown under the bed and went to sleep.
The next morning Nimue was wakened by loud pounding at her door. The room was cold; she had been sleeping under a pile of furs. Before she could get up to open the door, it burst open and Mark came stomping into the room. A half dozen guards waited behind him in the corridor. He raised his arm and pointed accusingly.
“You!”
She sat up groggily, alarmed.
“You! Colin! Where is that girl?”
“Excuse me, Your Majesty, but what girl? I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean.”
“There was a girl last night. She came to my room.” He sounded more bewildered than ferocious. He held up his hand and rubbed his forehead. “Called herself Elaine or some such. I think she drugged me.”
The guards outside had their swords drawn.
“A girl? What on earth could a girl do?”
“This one was treacherous. A scheming, lying-”
“But, Your Highness, what does this have to do with me?”
He stopped and took a deep breath. “She was seen. She was seen coming this way-toward this wing. Someone saw her at your door. You must have seen or heard her.”
She thought quickly. The gown she’d worn was still hidden under the bed; if they searched the room- “A blond girl in a low-cut white dress?”
“Yes. Where is she, damn it?”
“I saw her pass. Late at night. She was running.”
“Which way?”
She pointed down the hall that led to the castle’s main entrance.
One of the guards leaned in. Nimue recognized him as the one who’d been on duty outside Mark’s room the previous night. “As I told you, sir.”
Mark turned and flared at him. “How could she have gotten out past the guards there?”
“They don’t question people who are leaving, only the ones who are trying to get in.”
Mark scowled. “She can’t have gotten away.”
“The question is, how did she get in to begin with?”
“Damn breach of security. She might have been anyone. She might have been an assassin. Let’s question the guards at the main gate.”
They turned to go. Then the guard turned back into the room and stared at Nimue. His eyes narrowed suspiciously; he seemed to be inspecting her carefully. She froze; she didn’t even breathe. He peered at her.
He was about to say something when from down the hall came Mark’s roar. “William! Come on!”
The guard shook his head, as if to say he didn’t know why he would suspect Colin. Then he turned and followed his king.
A few minutes later Britomart came to Nimue’s room. Nimue told her what had happened and the things Mark had said the previous night.
“So. Merlin has been right. Arthur has been a fool to trust Mark, and I’ve been a fool to doubt Merlin’s judgment.”
“Why a fool, Brit? To all appearances Mark has been a loyal subject to Arthur.”
“Yes, but… I should have known. Something should have told me.”
“There’s no way you could have.”
“Then why do I feel so completely foolish? But…”
“Hm?”
“Even given that Mark is engaged in treason, that doesn’t prove he killed the squires.”
“It makes it that much more likely.”
“Arthur wants proof. Proof.”
“If we can get him to arrest Mark for treason, and if there are no more murders…”
“That’s not good enough. Arthur is no fool. Everyone plots to advance his own interests. If we arrest everyone who does that, who would be left?”
“Cheerful thought.”
“There has to be a way to unmask Mark. But how?”
Nimue crawled out of bed. “Let’s get going. I hope we can make Camelot by tonight. I want my own bed and a king who’ll leave me alone.”
Late that morning their party left Mark’s castle and Cornwall. The weather had been good for their entire trip. Now clouds were building up on the western horizon, and the Atlanticlooked restless. Waves began to pound both sides of the peninsula. There was a stiff wind.
Accolon and his men had enjoyed two days of leisure, but even they were happy to be returning home. Accolon said they were all made nervous by the air of secrecy and suspicion that pervaded Mark’s castle.
Nimue had been careful to bring a supply of acid globes and kept them where she could reach them quickly if they were attacked. “It seems incredible to me that Mark is letting us get away.”
Brit shrugged. “As far as he knows-or can imagine- the woman who was in his bedroom last night is the real spy and the real danger. She has nothing to do with us. Or let us hope that’s what he thinks. You did an excellent job, by the way. I shudder to think what you had to do to get him to open up.”
“Less than you’d think. He was drunk when I got there. Drugging his wine was simple.”
“That’s good. But…”
“Yes?”
“How far would you have gone, if you’d needed to?”
“I don’t know. And I’m glad I didn’t have to find out.”
They traveled as quickly as the roads would permit, and they were home an hour after sunset. The night sky was black with clouds. Nimue hoped it wasn’t an omen.
They went straight to Merlin’s tower and told him what they’d learned. He seemed upset by the news. “It would be Mark.”
“I thought you suspected him all along.” Nimue was puzzled.
“I did. But a suspicion has turned into a near-certainty, and with it all the awful possibilities have become more real.”
Brit leaned back and put her feet up on the table. “Suppose we send soldiers to arrest him before he can do anything more?”
“Arthur won’t wear it. We still need hard proof. Besides, the scenario we’ve assembled doesn’t quite make sense to me. Mark is trying to provoke some kind of nationwide insurrection, that much seems clear. What on earth would murdering two boys gain him?”
Nimue was about to say something when they heard footsteps on the staircase outside; someone was running. A moment later there came a loud knock at the door. Merlin asked who it was.
“Greffys, sir. I have news.”
“Come in.”
Greffys opened the door and stepped into the room, out of breath and panting heavily.
“You need to start exercising more often, Greffys.” Brit was amused at his entrance. “Climbing a few steps shouldn’t wind you so.”
He ignored her. “I have news, Merlin.” There was urgency in his tone.
“What is it? For heaven’s sake, Greffys, calm down.”
Panting, he said, “We’ve found them.”
“Them? What on earth do you mean?”
“The Stone of Bran and Excalibur. We’ve found them.”