“Even so.”
Mark took a step forward. “Your Majesty must know how unwise it is to travel by night. There are bandits- cutthroats.”
“Then perhaps you’ll be good enough to provide me with guards.” She lowered her eyes. “My poor throat is so delicate.”
Before Mark could respond to her irony, Lancelot stepped forward from among the servants where he’d been seeing to his horse’s saddle. “We can handle any brigands who might dare attack the queen’s party.”
Then for the first time Arthur spoke like a king, with a sense of command in his voice. “Your swordsmanship is precisely the issue, Lancelot. Guenevere, you are not to leave. This is an order.” He smiled. “Departure will not be permitted.”
“Don’t be a fool, Arthur. There are three times more people than the castle can hold. Food is running out already.”
He turned to Mark and ordered him pointedly to post more soldiers. Then to the queen he said, “Go back to your rooms, Guenevere. If you don’t go now, and voluntarily, you will do it under guard.”
Lancelot stepped toward him, his hand on his sword, obviously angry. Two of Arthur’s men drew their own swords, as did Mark, Britomart and Ganelin.
Guenevere stepped serenely between them and put a hand on Lancelot’s arm. Servants scrambled to get behind one another. “You would never dare hold us prisoner, Arthur,” Lancelot snarled.
“Do you think I’m afraid of the scandal? If I can weather the gossip about you bellying the queen, I can certainly weather this.”
Looking more than mildly alarmed, Lancelot and Guenevere stepped into the carriage and talked hastily. A moment later she emerged, smiling lightly, and told her husband she would remain for another day, no more. “But I warn you, Arthur, we are to be treated as guests, not prisoners. ”
“Is that a threat?”
“Let us say it is a request. A firm request.”
Arthur turned to Britomart. “Take two of the men. Go and spread word that the queen will remain in residence.”
Smirking, Britomart asked him, “As a guest?”
“As a guest.” Glancing at the queen he added, “A royal guest.”
Merlin leaned close to Nimue and whispered, “A royal pain would be more like it.”
The rain began to come down steadily. Mixed with it were occasional particles of ice. It stung faces and hands.
Arthur watched as his wife, her lover and their servants were herded back into the castle by his soldiers. To Mark he said, “I should have let her go. This storm will get bad. She’d never have gotten far in it, and I’d have had the pleasure of hearing her ask for shelter.”
“Would you have given it?”
“Not until she begged or became waterlogged.”
A moment later everyone went back inside. Arthur asked them all to meet in Merlin’s rooms the next morning, to discuss what had happened that night and plan how to find the assassin. “I won’t rest till we find him. Borolet must be avenged.”
“Suppose it was the assassin who you just sent back into your castle?” Merlin asked.
It caught Arthur off guard. In fact it seemed an impossible thought for him to confront. “Would that be worse than letting her go free?”
“She was trying to leave for a reason. To leave by dark of night,” he added emphatically. “And without saying a word to you or anyone else. Is it wrong of me to find that suspicious? ”
“You find everything Guenevere does suspicious.”
“Only because it is.”
“I’m going to bed, Merlin. I need a good night’s rest. We all do.” To everyone he announced, “We’ll meet after breakfast. In Merlin’s quarters.”
After midnight the rain became heavy. Then a cold wave blew down from the north and turned it to ice and snow.
Like all castles Camelot was full of drafts. Cold air rushed through the halls and chambers, wailing mournfully like an invasion of ghosts. Tapestries blew in it; rickety old furniture wobbled noisily.
In his bedchamber Merlin woke, freezing. He got up, threw four logs on the fire, which gave the only light in the room, then opened a huge old wooden chest and rummaged about till he found a coverlet made of wolf hides. It was thick and warm, and he wrapped it around himself as he walked back to the bed.
But the wind was howling too loudly for him to get back to sleep easily. He got up again, went and stood by the fire, rubbed his hands together and wondered aloud why people ever chose to live in places where the weather got this unpleasant.
There came a soft knock at the door. He opened it to find Nimue, wrapped in a blanket and shivering. “I’m sorry to wake you, Merlin.”
“You didn’t.”
“The fire in my room went out and I don’t have any tinder to relight it.”
“Come in. Mine is burning high and hot.”
“Thanks.” She entered hurriedly. “Say what you will about Morgan, she always keeps her castle warm.”
“That’s a good trick. How does she manage it?”
“Only she and the gods know.”
“Let me get us some wine.” He opened a cabinet and took out a bottle and two cups. “Fire only warms the outside. ”
Nimue took the wine gratefully. “I hate winter.”
“And it’s not even here yet. This is only a foretaste. I hope it doesn’t mean winter itself, when it gets here, will be worse.”
“What an awful thought.” She drank deeply.
“It must be my age, but every year I have a harder time believing spring will actually come.”
Nimue drained her cup then walked to the window. “Where would you live, given the choice?”
“I don’t know. Alexandria is warm but noisy. There’s something wrong with every place, I suppose.”
“I hate winter.” She looked outside.
“You might stop saying so.”
Camelot sat atop the highest hill for miles around. There was a wide, wonderful view of the surrounding hills and forests, all white from the weather. And there were breaks in the clouds though it was still snowing. The moonlit world was ghostly.
Then something caught her eye. “Merlin, look.”
Fifty feet away from them rose Camelot’s tallest tower, the one where the king resided. Two windows looked from his bedchamber out over the castle and beyond. And both windows were lit brightly. The figure of the king was unmistakable in one of them.
The sight startled Merlin. But he told her, “He’s restless, that’s all. You saw how the murder affected him.”
“Yes.”
Then another figure appeared beside him, male, shorter than he. For a moment they stood side by side. Then they embraced.
Seeing it made Merlin uncomfortable. “I have a flint and some wood shavings. Let’s see if we can’t get your fire relit. ”
Nimue lingered at the window for a moment, fascinated. She watched as the two figures pulled apart and the light went out. Then she went with Merlin. Her room was just below his in the tower, but her windows faced the opposite direction. He was glad of that. When he managed to reignite the fire, he said good night and went back up to his own chambers.
The room was warmer now. He put another log on the fire, hoping the warmth would last, got into bed and wrapped himself in wolf fur. But sleep would not come. Too much was happening. Too much that was unexpected and made no sense.
Early the next morning they began to arrive at Merlin’s chambers.
The snow had stopped, but occasional flakes still danced in the air, glinting in the grey diffuse light from a heavy cloud deck.
Most of the windows in Camelot were either unglazed or permanently sealed shut with glass. The glass was crude, not at all smooth or clear, which made windows inconvenient. But Merlin had contrived to have the window in his study hinged, for the ravens. They would come and peck at it to be let in or out. Sometimes the hinge would stick and the window would have to be forced, and sometimes as a result the glass would crack and need replacing. But in weather like this he was glad he’d installed the hinge.