Untitled (24 page)

   Guenevere sat at her dressing table and began to brush her hair. She smiled at him. "I hope you don't mind. I think it is important to maintain one's appearance."

   He brushed this aside. "The peculiar thing is, this crea­ ture seems unable to stop eating. On the rare occasions when it manages to capture more prey than it actually needs, it keeps eating till its sides swell and burst. Its own gluttonous nature results in its death."

   She brushed her hair vigorously and studied her appear­ ance in the mirror. "Is this supposed to be of any interest to me? The eating habits of spiders are hardly—"

   "Other spiders, when there is an abundance of food, use it to feed their newly hatched young. Not this one. They are the first things she devours. Even then, she keeps right on feeding. As repulsive as it is, it is quite fascinating to watch. Done in by her own appetite."

   "It you have a point, Merlin, make it and go. I am ex­ pecting someone."

   "No, you are not." He spoke slowly and heavily.

   "I beg your pardon?"

   "Let me be more precise. You may be expecting some­ one. That does not mean he will arrive."

   "Why do courtiers all talk like that? My father had a—"

   "I realize that the oath you took to Arthur only last night must not mean much to you. Oaths never do to your sort. But you cannot seriously believe that taking it would free you to carry on with life as you lived it before."

   She carefully placed her hairbrush on the table and turned to face him. "You are trying to tell me what, pre­ cisely?"

   "Have you forgotten? Lancelot is still in jail. You are not exactly behaving like a woman who wants to see her boy­ friend free."

   "Husband. Oh, how I enjoy saying that. You are not go­ ing to renege on our agreement, are you?" A faint note of alarm crept into her voice. "Lancelot is innocent."

   "How can you know that so confidently unless you also know the identity of the actual assassin?"

   "Merlin, I—"

   "No negotiations. No diplomatic maneuvering. None. Do you understand? There will be none. Do not even make the attempt, not if you want to see your lover vindicated. Arthur does not know about this—yet. But I promise you he would not receive the news graciously."

   The queen's face froze. After a moment she said, "Why, what can you be talking about? Diplomatic maneuvering? I? I am a humble servant of King Arthur, as you are your­ self."

   "Podarthes is being informed that you are indisposed and are at any rate not receiving visitors. Any further at­ tempt at communication between the two of you will result in the immediate trial and execution of Lancelot."

   "But he is innocent!"

   "Innocence be damned. Lancelot is guilty of more trea­ sons than most culprits ever dream of. As are you. This rubbish with Petronus, for example. Thank heaven the boy has a conscience." He said this last in the most pointed tone. "Did you really think taking that oath of fealty would give you free rein to resume your plots and schemes? Since you are lonely for company, I am having your guard dou­ bled. I hope that will satisfy your need for society."

   The queen's eyes widened, which was as close as she would permit herself to get to showing rage. "Let me talk to Arthur."

   "Guenevere, there is no point. He will only reinforce what I have told you. And he might possibly do much worse to you. Do you really want to give him that opening? Be a good queen and stay here with your prayer books and your needlework."

   "Merlin, I am warning you—"

   "Warn all you like. Unless you are prepared to brain me on the spot with one of your hymnals, nothing will come of it. Those Egyptian spiders keep fighting even after they have ruptured their own bodies, spitting venom even as the desert birds descend and tear them to pieces. But in the end they expire." He put on a sardonic grin. "And in the end it is their own doing."

   For a long moment she did not move. Then slowly she picked up her hairbrush again; it was obvious she was working to appear casual. "Have you found that other knife yet? Lancelot's?"

   "Yes. Never mind where. We have yours—which we know was the murder weapon. Oh yes, and Lancelot thinks he saw a woman rushing away from the scene."

   "La—" For an instant a flash of anger showed in her eyes. Then she caught herself and broke off what she had been about to say. "You are trying to set us against one an­ other."

   "You are married. Why should we need to?" Merlin shrugged. "That is his claim. A woman, at the scene of the murder. He will repeat it in court, under oath, no doubt. Not that oaths seem to mean much to the two of you."

   "I know you, Merlin. If Lancelot said such a thing, it can only be because you led him to say it. You may even have gotten him to believe it. But you love the truth. I know that. You must exonerate him. That knife will tell the tale."

   "To what end? If it went missing, it is because someone stole it for its beauty or its value. Or because you yourself hid it to confuse the investigation. What possible relevance can the fact that he lost it have when it was not involved in the crime?"

   "It is relevant because its theft shows that there is some­ one at work, for some unknown motive, trying to incrimi­ nate him."

   He smiled beatifically. "Or not. Lancelot had every rea­ son to resent Leodegrance. He had every opportunity to do the murder—and we have a witness who will swear she saw him do it. What could the other knife prove?"

   "We had a bargain, damn you, Merlin. I expect you to live up to it."

   "I will, Guenevere. Just as faithfully as you have. Oh—" He pretended an afterthought had occurred to him. "They were lovers. Did you know that?"

   "Lovers? Who?"

   "Lancelot and Petronilla."

   "No!" She shrieked the word.

   "Yes. At least, according to him. Have a nice day, Guenevere."

   He left her still fuming. It had been a productive meet­ ing, he thought, and he smiled to himself.

A few minutes later Nimue joined him in his chambers, to all appearances in a bright mood. "It's noon. Aren't you hungry? They have roast beef."

   Merlin stood at the window, feeding breadcrumbs to his ravens. There were more of them than usual; the storm had driven them indoors for shelter. "Remarkable birds, these. Somehow they knew I had left Camelot and come here. And they followed."

   One by one, like little soldiers, they lined up and waited patiently for their food. Without looking at her, he said, "I prefer my ravens to human company. They are hungry, they are greedy for food, but at least they do not try to hide the fact. The only honest human beings are the ones who claim to despise all the other ones."

   "You're in a mood. Every time there's trouble you get like this."

   "Is there some reason why I should not? A boy walks through a peaceful forest, cheerful, optimistic. Birds sing, squirrels play, rabbits scamper about. To all appearances the world is a harmonious place. And then he idly picks up a stick and probes a hole. And a snake or a toad strikes at him. Moments later he is dead. What would you say? Was his optimism justified?"

   "Not being a boy with a stick, I couldn't guess."

   "A thousand years ago, more or less, at the height of the Peloponnesian War, and seemingly from out of nowhere, a plague ravaged Athens. Thousands died."

   "I know that, Merlin. I've read my Thucydides."

   He ignored her interruption. "We know the disease. That is, we know its pathology. The historian himself suffered from it but happily recovered, so we can trust his account of its progress. And the symptoms correspond to no known illness. Do you understand that?"

   Despite herself Nimue was curious where he was going. "Of course. It's a simple enough fact."

   "The question then becomes,
what was it
? And even more to the point,
where is it
? This unknown disease, this slaughterer of thousands, what has become of it? Is it pos­ sible it has simply . . . vanished, ceased to be? Do diseases do such things? Or is it out there in the world somewhere, lurking, waiting for its opportunity to strike again, to ravage another city and reduce its population?

   "No one thinks about it. It struck Athens and went away, that is all. Why should the rest of us worry, a millennium later? But it is there, Nimue, waiting. Sooner or later, it will strike. And it will conquer again."

   Listening to him, she ambled about the room. The larg­ est of the ravens went to her and she stroked its head. "Why all this plague talk? I'd have thought you had more than enough on your mind."

   "It seems relevant, that is all."

   "Plague in Athens." She was deadpan.

   "Yes. Or . . . you have read enough history. Pick a city; disease has erupted and crippled it, always at a time when everything seemed prosperous. Name a king, he has been weakened by something he could not fathom. Name a fam­ ily, no matter how happy and prosperous, and vice has crept in. Arthur and Guenevere are the world in small scale. And evil is everywhere. We all fall victim to it in the end. If there was only some way we could know, we would see that the nature of the universe is corruption. If we could only see it, we would know that even the stars die."

   Nimue crossed to the window with the raven on her arm. Outside, the rain was pouring down torrentially. It was pos­ sible to see distant brooks and rivulets, swelled beyond their banks, flooding the landscape. The world was alive with rushing floodwater and, it appeared, with nothing else. "You are confusing human evil with accidental processes in the natural world. You should know better than to lapse into such a fallacy."

   Merlin turned to face her. "You are a good young woman, Nimue. Or should I say a good young
man
, Colin? But they are one and the same. Human nature is a reflection of the nature of the universe of which it is a part."

   "Grasshoppers disguise themselves as sticks. Does that make them evil, then, or merely clever?"

   For a moment he fell silent and watched the raging storm. Lightning flashed in the distance. "There is a legend of a king called Lear. He had three daughters, only one of whom loved him. And of the three, she was the one he destroyed."

   "Lear was mad."

   "And is madness not a kind of evil? The worst kind? Those grasshoppers eat their own young."

   She took a few steps away from him, trying to appear casual. "I can't stand it when you get into one of these moods. And this is the worst I've ever seen."

   He shrugged. "I've just been with the queen."

   "Oh." She stroked the bird's head and it cooed softly with pleasure.

   "You should be flattered. He does not normally let any­ one touch him but me."

   She looked directly at Merlin. "We searched Petronilla's room."

   For a moment he seemed lost in his dark thoughts. Then, softly, he asked, "And what did you find?"

   "Nothing. Nothing incriminating, at any rate. But she does carry a small portrait of Lancelot in her luggage. At least, we think it's Lancelot. You know those French por­ trait painters."

   "It is not labeled?"

   "Only with
mon cher
. There is no way to know whether he gave it to her or she had it painted herself. Or even whether it is really him."

   "No. Of course not. We can't very well question every miniaturist in France. Not that anyone in his right mind would want to. If there is a human being more lunatic than a French artist . . . Did you find anything else?"

   "Clothes, books—prayer books—some letters from Leonilla."

   "I see. I shall have to question Petronilla a second time. There seems no way of escaping it."

   "You sound as if it will be a burden."

   "Have you not been listening to me, Nimue?" Uncharac­ teristically, he raised his voice. "The soul of the human race—its genius, if we could but see it—is as black as a moonless midnight. And the human soul is a reflection of the universe. Plants grow full of poison. The smallest toads are filled with deadly venom. Rain pours from the sky, brooks flood and babies drown. How could we be other than we are?"

   She was beginning to become alarmed. "The king is drinking again, I think. And you are raging with melan­ choly. No one is in charge here."

   "No one is ever truly in charge anywhere. Do you not understand that?"

   "The gods—"

   "Are myths. Children's stories, spun out and made

elaborate for adult minds. You grew up in Morgan's court. You hide from her vengeance by pretending to be some­ thing you are not. You must know that as well as anyone."

   "If belief leads to stability, then shouldn't we foster belief?"

   "What do you think the lion believes in when it is de­ vouring the young of the antelope? What creed spurs the formation of poison in the viper? The world is what it is." Suddenly he seemed to lose all his energy. Sadly, he added, "And I have not been getting much sleep. That must be at the bottom of this mood I am in."

   "I thought you'd never realize it."

   "Let me sleep for an hour or two. I'll be better then."

   "Petronilla—"

   "Keep her in her room. Find some pretext. Don't let her know we have doubts about her." Suddenly, he yawned. "I am old, Nimue. And getting older. Each day takes me one step closer to the sepulcher. Sleep is a foreshadowing."

   "Get some anyway. You'll find that sepulcher retreating into the distance."

   He leaned forward and kissed her gently on the fore­ head. "You know I have never married. I do not regret that. But it has always been a wish of mine to have a daughter. Perhaps that wish, at least, has been granted."

   "I believe Lear once said much the same thing."

   "I express one faint hopeful thought, and you puncture it. You are my daughter indeed. Amid the floods and the poisons, there is that. Go and see to Petronilla."