“Mordred is reading. He has a new copy of Lucretius.” She added pointedly, “A distinguished skeptic from the ancient world.”
“I am perfectly aware of who he was, thank you. But- should you encourage your son to doubt? He might get into the habit.”
She had had enough of this. “I want to know what you’re up to, Merlin. I’m told you were conspiring with the royal gravediggers this morning,”
“Up to? Conspiring?” He was all sweet innocence. “Why, I am simply doing the king’s bidding. He wants a spectacular miracle to impress everyone with his power. The Stone of Bran will make that possible.”
“Nonsense. Arthur wants to use the religious impulses of his people to strengthen his position in the country. But neither he nor you is used to doing that. You may find you’re getting into more trouble than you realize.”
“Is that a threat, Morgan?”
“Let us call it a friendly admonition. I hardly have to threaten you. Neither of you understands what you’re doing. ” Her voice turned hard. “Abandon this foolishness. Do a few conjurer’s tricks and send them all home. There will be no resurrection.”
“Will there not?”
“No.” She was quite serene in her confidence.
“But, Morgan, the people have been promised a miracle.”
Mordred came in; he had clearly been eavesdropping. “A miracle? There is no such thing, Merlin, and you know it perfectly well. The idea that a bit of polished rock might restore life to the dead…”
“Not might-will.”
Morgan stood. Tall and imperious, she pointed a finger directly at Merlin’s head. “Stop this charade. Announce the truth.”
“The truth? You mean the ‘truth’ that only a priestess can work wonders? Really, Morgan, your threats are so toothless. ”
“They are not. You know perfectly well what I mean.”
He got wearily to his feet. “Have you brought your chest of poisons, then?”
“Chest of-” She batted her eyelashes like a demure girl. “Why, sir, I possess no such thing. But if I did…”
“Yes?”
“I would make certain I knew what I was meddling with.” Her voice took on a hard edge.
“I see. Yes, I suppose you would.” He started to go then turned back to her, grinning. “Have a pleasant day. And you too, Mordred. If the cold becomes too much for you, let me know. There are shawls and blankets I can send. Older women are so frail.”
“Get out of here, you horrible fraud.”
“Yes, ma’am. I’ll see you at court tonight.”
That evening there was a huge feast in the dining hall, which was decked out with evergreens and hung about with large colorful banners and tapestries. Musicians played, mimes performed, jugglers juggled. Roast beef, goose, mutton and veal were served in huge quantities. More to the point, wine, mead and ale flowed like water. This was standard at the Midwinter feast, but Merlin suggested that keeping everyone well lubricated would be an advantage.
There was a small head table at which Arthur and Merlin sat. It was on a dais, high enough for Merlin to watch everyone but not so high as to be intimidating. Guenevere, Morgan and Mark and their people were seated at tables just below Arthur’s. Arthur was dressed in his best finery and wore Excalibur at his side; it was the tangible sign of his kingship and had been polished to a shimmering brilliance.
Merlin noted with satisfaction that Mark was drinking heavily. So was Lancelot; and Guenevere downed more than her share of mead. Only Morgan seemed to be abstaining. She sat beside her son, eating fastidiously, not talking, not looking around the hall even occasionally.
Merlin commented on it. “Such self-possession doesn’t seem quite human.”
“That is my sister you’re talking about.” Arthur bit into a flank of beef. Then glumly, he added, “Well, half sister. She’s always been that way. I think if she smiled or showed pleasure she’d vanish in a puff of smoke.”
For an instant Merlin was tempted to ask Arthur about the incest rumors about him and Morgan, but he decided not to do anything that might disrupt the king’s mood.
At one far corner of the refectory, the two gravediggers sat, eating and drinking heartily like everyone else. Noticing them, Arthur nudged Merlin with an elbow. “Look. They’re getting drunk.”
“Like everyone else in Camelot.”
“Except you and my sister. Have they done what they should have?”
“Everything is in readiness, Arthur, yes.”
“People have been coming to me about this all day long. Mark approached me three times, begging me not to let you do this.”
“Mark is a superstitious gull. Which is exactly what I want.”
“So three of your suspects will be in the Great Hall. But what about the fourth?”
“Pellenore? He will be there, too, only not in plain sight.”
Arthur narrowed his eyes. “You know where he is.”
“No. I wish I did. I’d give anything to know the hidden parts of Camelot the way he does.”
“I keep expecting him to pop out of a wall and hack someone’s head off.”
“He’s harmless, Arthur.”
“No one human is harmless.” Saying this, Arthur startled himself. “Good heavens, I’m starting to sound like you.”
“You could do worse.”
“Eat your goose and be quiet. You’re lucky I find this miracle of yours useful and desirable. Otherwise I’d never let you toy with three people I know to be innocent.”
“Of course, Arthur.”
When everyone had finished eating-and had had time to drink still more-Arthur announced that the evening’s entertainment and ceremony would begin shortly in the Great Hall. He urged them to bring whatever was left of their dinners, and their drinks, and adjourn there.
Humming with anticipation, they did so. People filed through Camelot’s halls in small groups or singly; pages lit the way with blazing torches. The musicians led the way, still playing lively music, though the tone grew successively more somber as everyone reached the hall.
The hall itself was lit brilliantly, more so than anyone could remember seeing before. Hundreds of torches and candles glowed fiercely; it seemed there was one in every possible space along the walls.
A platform-the same one that had been used on the night of the first murder-had been erected, and a row of more torches glared along its perimeter. Merlin had instructed several of the servants to sprinkle lime into the flames to make them burn even more brightly. But there was only one throne on the platform this night, Arthur’s, and it was set off to one side. Clearly he considered what was to come sufficiently important to remove himself from the center of things.
As the crowd filled the room, more servants with still more beverages entered and began to circulate, followed by more with generous supplies of Arthur’s honey cakes. It was all terribly festive; everyone seemed in a jovial mood, except Morgan and her son; they stood against the wall opposite the stage and watched everything and everyone with plain disapproval.
On a signal from Arthur, the servants extinguished all the lights in the room but the ones lighting the stage. It was time for the promised spectacle to begin.
First came the play. Arthur introduced Samuel, who in turn announced that his company would play The Fall of Troy, a stunning new drama by Dares the Phrygian and Dictys of Crete based on the eyewitness accounts of the fabled city’s fall. “We have performed this to acclaim in all the important courts of Europe. And we are privileged to present it here for you tonight.”
Merlin and Nimue took places not far from Morgan and Mordred, hoping to overhear whatever they might say. But the crowd was too loud, too boisterous for any individual voice to carry very far.
The actors took their places, and, lit harshly by the torches around the stage, Samuel recited the prologue. “And we shall see, both man and wife / the city’s fall, the end of life.”
Merlin leaned close to Nimue and whispered, “Let us hope we don’t see the end of Camelot, too.”