Untitled (26 page)

   "What you believe, Jean-Paul, is no concern of mine. But tell me about Leonilla and her marriage."

   "Jean-Michel. I keep telling you. Is this some sort of of­ ficial inquiry, then?"

   "Let us say a friendly questioning. A murder has been committed here, a royal one. You must understand that we cannot let it go uninvestigated—unsolved. You were one of Leodegrance's subjects. You must want justice at least as much as I do."

   "People say you are a wizard. Why don't you just sum­ mon up a genie or a spirit or something and have it tell you who the killer is?"

   "If a tenth of the things people say about me were true, I would be the most powerful man in Europe. The king— Leodegrance, I mean—opposed this absurd 'marriage' be­ tween Lancelot and Guenevere?"

   "I think so, yes. But I never mixed in affairs like that. I told you, I always preferred to keep in the background."

   "And Petronilla? Who did she side with?"

   He shrugged. "I have no idea. But you're talking to me as if I might know something worth knowing."

   "Do you not?"

   "Most people at Camelliard would tell you no. In their minds, I am Leonilla's . . . boy, nothing more. The fact that I might love her and yet still have a sound mind never seems to occur to them. I am young and handsome, and I have the queen's favor, and so in their minds there can be nothing more to me."

   "I try never to underestimate anyone. Anyone at all." Merlin took his cane and got to his feet. "Thank you very much for the information. It has been most enlightening."

   "Really? I haven't told you much—certainly nothing but gossip you could get from any servant." Jean-Michel smiled at him. "If you want to know who killed Leode­ grance, you should look to his daughter. She wanted to marry her knight; I have no idea why. Lancelot is not much more than a lump, a mass of muscle. But love is so strange."

   "You would know that."

   He bristled. "Leodegrance opposed the marriage quite vigorously. Guenevere hated him."

   "Perhaps you are right. Our queen has committed so many villainies." Merlin sighed. "One more would hardly seem to make much difference. At least, I doubt it would, to her. But thank you for the information."

   "I have given you so little."

   "More than you think. You will keep this talk confiden­ tial, I trust."

   "Who would I tell?"

   "The queen—your lover."

   "No. You've seen her, talked to her. You know about these odd walks she goes on, where no one can find her. Her mind is going. At her age . . ." He looked away from Merlin and lowered his voice. "I wish old age did not do that to us. It is so difficult to see her like this."

   "Old age does its worst. I shudder to think what will happen to my mind in the coming years."

   "A mind like yours will never decay. Not till your body does."

   "It would be so nice to believe that. But I have never had that kind of luck."

   "This reputation of yours—all these claims that you have magical powers—can it have survived if you did not work to promote it?"

   "People still believe in dragons despite the fact that dragons do nothing to promote it."

   It was a new thought to the young man; it showed in his face. "I . . . suppose so."

   "Once, just once before I die, I would like to pass an en­ tire day without having to explain to anyone that I am not a magician, wizard, mage, sorcerer, conjurer or any of the other species of that ilk. Such persons do not exist except in folktales."

   "Folktales are all most people have to believe in."

   "Believe me, I know it. Thank you again for the talk, Jean-Claude."

   "Jean-Michel."

"Yes. Thank you." "You might at least get my name right."

Merlin recounted his unexpected exchange with JeanMichel to Nimue and Brit. "It seemed so obvious that Lan­ celot had done the murder, most likely at Guenevere's insistence. But now . . . Every time I question anyone the situation grows muddier. I suppose we should be grateful for this rainstorm. It is ravaging the country, but at least it is keeping all of the interested parties bottled up here."

   "This strikes you as a good thing?" Brit sounded skepti­ cal. "Doesn't it make more death inevitable?"

   "Let us hope not."

   "You have never struck anyone as a man for hope, Mer­ lin. It's almost comical—the great man of reason, hoping for the best amid all this intrigue."

   Nimue was listening carefully; she decided she didn't want the two of them bickering. "So what do we know? Who might have killed the king?"

   "I think Lancelot and Guenevere are still the likeliest suspects. But there is Petronilla, hoping to pin the murder on her lover, Lancelot. There are all the other delegates. We have no certain way of knowing what plots they might be involved in. I must question the squires who are attached to them. And there are of course the Byzantines and that bloody man from Lithuania or . . . or wherever."

   "What motive could they have?"

   "They are Byzantines. Wheels within wheels, boxes within boxes. They never do what they do for clear, obvi­ ous reasons. If they thought killing Leodegrance would in some way help to topple another petty ruler at the far end of the empire, they would not hesitate. Look at the game they have been playing with us, with that Lithuanian fraud pretending not to understand any known language. It is so improbable, yet they expected us to believe it without question. Thank goodness young Andrew found that knife."

   He paused and looked from one of them to the other. "And of course there are other, less expected suspects."

   "Who?"

   "Leonilla. And that absurd young lover of hers."

   Nimue said, "It doesn't seem like he could be involved."

   "What makes you say so?"

   "I know him. I mean, not well, but we have struck up a kind of friendship. I mean, even the servants have noticed us together. They talk about him. Nothing substantial, only gossip. He seems genuine to me. At least, I think he is genuinely distressed by what happened to his king, not to mention Leonilla apparently coming unhinged."

   Merlin raised an eyebrow. "Leodegrance and Leonilla had disagreed, I gather rather bitterly, about Guenevere's new marriage. Leonilla has a long record of disposing of her opponents. And it is difficult to imagine her stabbing the king herself. She would entrust that duty to someone younger and stronger. For that matter, no one has ever precisely accounted for all the deaths of her other rivals. Jean-Pierre could easily be her pet assassin as well as her pet."

   "Jean-Michel. He's a nice young man." Nimue said it so forcefully it was almost shocking. "Or at least, he seems like it. It's hard to believe him capable of murder."

   "A man may smile and smile and be a villain. But I am only speculating, you understand. There are twenty diplo­ mats here, with their entourages, any one of whom is capa­ ble of devious plotting. It is what they do for a living, after all. We must not lose sight of any of the possibilities."

"Petronilla." Merlin smiled broadly. "Good afternoon."

   She sat in her room doing needlework. "So you are be­ hind this detention. I should have guessed. Every time I've tried to leave my room, I've been kept here on some pretext or other."

   "My apologies for any inconvenience."

   "It is more than inconvenience. It is insulting, Why am I being treated like a prisoner?"

   "No such thing, Petronilla. The guards have perhaps been overzealous, that is all." He tried to make the lie sound as convincing as possible.

   "Why do I have guards at all?"

   "Why, Petronilla, you sound downright imperious. You have perhaps been with Guenevere too long."

   She looked up from her needle. "Don't be funny with me, Merlin. I've been as forthright with you as I could be."

   "There is a murderer on the loose. Do you really mind being protected from him?"

   She glared. "You have the murderer. And I don't deserve to be treated like this."

   He had had enough of trying to be pleasant. "What you deserve is for the king to decide. Besides, we are not at all certain Lancelot did the murder."

   Her eyes widened but she said nothing, which pleased him. After a long pause he told her, "There have been ru­ mors. Mildly disturbing ones. I have been trying to estab­ lish what truth there is to them—if any. That is all."

   "About me? What rumors could there possibly be about me? I am the queen's secretary, no more. It is the dullest, least impressive job imaginable."

   "I am afraid I even had to have your rooms searched." He made a vague gesture around the room they were in.

   She paused, glared, pretended to return her attention back to her needlework. "Oh? And was that a valuable use of time?"

   He decided to be direct. But he smiled a gentle smile as he said, "You and Lancelot were lovers."

   She paused for a moment, then went on sewing. "What could have given you that idea?"

   Slowly he produced the miniature portrait of him. "
Mon
cher
does mean
my sweet
, does it not?"

   She reached out and tried to take it from him, but he pulled back.

   "Please, Merlin, that is personal. It isn't Lancelot. It is a portrait of a man I . . . fell in love with before I came here from France."

   "The one you lied about to incriminate?"

   "Give me that picture!"

   She lunged for it but he moved it behind his back. The sound of her raised voice brought one of the guards into the room. Merlin handed him the portrait. "Everything is all right here," he said, "but I would appreciate it if you would stay close by awhile and hold this for me."

   Petronilla's eyes flashed with anger.

   "Why, Petronilla, this is a side of you we have not seen before."

   "You haven't stolen my personal property before."

   "I was told you have a vindictive nature. I am not certain I believed it till now."

   She worked to compose herself, and the work showed. "I'm sorry, Merlin. It's just that . . . I love him, that's all."

   "So it really does represent a French paramour?"

   "Of course." She was trembling with anger and tried to hide it.

   "That is interesting. When I first saw it I thought it might be Lancelot."

   "No!"

   "Well, you know how imprecise artists can be. Most of their work could represent almost anyone."

   "Yes. But it is—"

   "I am afraid your meals will be served to you here from now on." He smiled benevolently. "For your own protec­ tion, The king does not want you exposed to any danger."

   "And will my meals consist of bread and water?"

   "Now, now, Petronilla. You are a valuable witness. We

can hardly afford to have anything happen to you. If Lance­ lot should come to trial, we shall certainly require your testimony."

   Finally she managed to compose herself. "You said you're not certain he is the killer. I told you what I saw. How could there be any doubt?"

   "This is England, Petronilla. Arthur's England. You know the reputation we have for fairness and justice. If a man is accused of a crime, we go to every length to make absolutely positive he is guilty before we punish him. With a capital crime like this one . . ."

   "I suppose that makes sense."

   "It does. You know it. We are making a new kind of na­ tion here. If we were not—if what we have built is arbitrary and can be set aside at the will of the monarch or on the word of a secretary—then it counts for nothing at all."

   She pouted slightly. "Leonilla would have had his head by now."

   "Leonilla is not Arthur. Her France, though it is only across the Channel, is a million miles from Arthur's En­ gland. Please, you must be patient. This confinement will end soon enough. I will have books brought. Or music. What­ ever you want. I hardly want this to be unpleasant for you."

   "He did it. He killed the king." She said it with perfect conviction.

   "Of course he did. We will have proof of that— incontrovertible proof—soon enough."

   "What? What proof?"

   "In good time. More than just the world of one witness."

   When he left her she seemed reassured. He hoped it was not another act of hers.

   "Frankly, Arthur, it is a tangle. There are several reasons to think Lancelot might not be guilty, and heaven knows there are enough other suspects. But . . ."

   "Yes?"

   "I want him to be the killer. Executing him would solve so many of our problems. Who knows—it might even tame Guenevere."

   "My loving wife will not be broken so easily. She thrives on treachery the way mosquitoes thrive on blood."

   "Apt metaphor."

   "How could it not be? I'm married to the bitch."

   "I believe," Merlin said slowly, "that is what is known as a diplomatic miscalculation. Not to mention a sexual one. There was actually a time when I thought her beautiful myself. That was before I saw the evil in her eyes. Can I have some of that wine?"

   Surprise registered in the king's face. "You? You want a drink? Have you forgotten all your temperance lectures?"

   "The last two days have been . . . tense. How is Colin coping with all the delegates?"

   Arthur took up the skin and poured a cup for Merlin. "I feel a bit guilty putting all the burden on him. But he's do­ ing a bang-up job. Keeping them all happy, or as happy as they are capable of being, making them feel important. I've had private audiences with most of them by now. They've even stopped complaining about the bloody rain."