She smiled sweetly. “I can’t imagine who I got it from.”
Just at that moment Mordred walked by and nodded at the two of them. For an instant he seemed to recognize Nimue; then he seemed to think better of it, shrugged and kept moving.
“He’s going to realize who I am sooner or later. He has to.”
“Do you think so? I don’t have the impression he’s any brighter than he needs to be.”
“All he’d have to do is drop a suggestion to his mother, and…”
“I’d worry about her, not him.” Merlin looked to the entrance where Morgan and Arthur would be coming in. There was no sign of them. “Morgan and her boy don’t come here often. After this nonsense is over, I’m sure they’ll be going back to their own castle.”
She glanced around nervously. “I hope you’re right.”
Mark of Cornwall joined them, in a festive mood. “Have you tried the honey cakes? They’re wonderful.”
“I’m dieting,” Merlin said irritably. “How is Percival? He should be here.”
“His pneumonia is getting worse.”
“I’ll go and see him after the ceremony. I am the court physician, after all.”
“He asked for a doctor who believes in the gods. He says someone like you could never cure him.”
“Some things,” Merlin said dryly, “aren’t curable.”
Nimue smiled. “Merlin has an annoying habit of being contrary. Have you ever noticed, Mark?”
“Everyone has.” He scanned the crowd. “There’s Britomart. I have to talk to her about a new drill I want to introduce. ”
“I’m going to get as close to the dais as I can, Mark. Why don’t you join me there?”
Mark nodded, then shouted, “Brit!” and disappeared quickly into the crowd.
A moment later the musicians played a fanfare and then a slow, solemn march. Servants extinguished some of the lights, as they had at the council. The crowd fell nearly silent. Then slowly, majestically, Arthur and his sister came in.
They were dressed in their best court finery, Arthur in white robes trimmed with gold and Morgan in black ones with silver trim. They climbed slowly to the dais and stood in front of their respective thrones.
Ganelin and Borolet stood at attention just beside the platform. Arthur nodded to Borolet, and the squire left quickly, presumably to fetch the shrine. Merlin elbowed his way through the crowd, trying to get closer, without much success. He found himself standing next to Britomart. “Mark is looking for you.”
“I know. I’m avoiding him.”
Suddenly Guenevere swept into the hall, followed closely by Lancelot and several lesser retainers. She went directly to the dais and began to climb the steps to it, clearly expecting to have a place there. Ganelin blocked her way. There was an exchange of words; Merlin couldn’t quite hear what was being said, but it was fairly plain she wanted to take her place on the second throne. At least she had decorum enough not to raise her voice.
Lancelot, who was built like an athlete, slender and fit, ten years younger than the queen, moved past her to confront the squire.
Arthur got quickly to his feet to join his squire and his wife. Morgan did not budge. There were more words. Then Arthur signaled that a third chair should be brought for the queen. A servant brought one, and Ganelin placed it carefully on the other side of Arthur’s throne from Morgan. The queen, trying without success to not look slighted, walked slowly to her makeshift throne and sat. Lancelot turned, descended the steps and disappeared into the audience.
Pellenore, evidently in a great hurry, pushed his way past Merlin and Britomart and disappeared into the crowd as well. Merlin looked around for Mark, but there was no sign of him.
Several moments passed. Arthur bent down and whispered something to Ganelin, who looked around the hall, evidently worried. Morgan sat perfectly still, staring directly ahead. The crowd began to grow restless; they started to talk and move about. When the noise level began to be quite noticeable, Morgan frowned; this was not seemly behavior at a sacred rite. Where was Borolet? Merlin wondered why, with all her careful preparations, Morgan hadn’t made provision for the shrine to be brought more quickly, or better yet to have it brought before the ceremony began.
More time passed. More people ignored the royals on the dais and talked, drank, ate or whatever. Merlin and Brit made their way to the platform. Arthur bent down and told Ganelin, “Go and see what’s holding him up.”
Merlin was enjoying it all. He whispered to Britomart, “Maybe it will transport itself here miraculously.”
“Something’s wrong, Merlin. For once why don’t you keep your thoughts to yourself.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Borolet’s delay was now quite pointed, quite unmistakable. No one could have failed to realize things were not going as planned. The assembled audience was getting more and more restless. Several people took extinguished torches and relit them from the ones that were still burning. A servant came and told Arthur the cakes were almost gone.
Then Ganelin rushed back into the hall and climbed to the dais. He was pale and agitated. He whispered something to Arthur, who turned pale as well. The king looked around the hall and called out, “Mark? Where is Mark of Cornwall? ”
There was no response. Arthur looked uncharacteristically grave. He gestured to Merlin and said, “Come with us.” The three men left the Great Hall quickly.
Camelot’s halls were nearly deserted; only servants came and went, each bowing deferentially as the king passed. In a matter of moments the little party reached the foot of the stairs to Arthur’s chambers.
The guard who had been stationed there lay on the floor. Merlin rushed to him and did a quick examination. “He’s unconscious, not dead.”
They climbed quickly. The guard at the top, outside the king’s rooms, had been knocked unconscious, too.
“In here,” said Ganelin, his voice shaking. He led them quickly through the outer chambers.
Blood covered the floor in the study. In the center of a large pool of it lay Borolet’s body. He had been hacked to pieces, evidently with a broadsword. The silver shrine was gone. The Stone of Bran was gone. And so was Excalibur.
TWO. MERLIN TAKES CHARGE
They identified the body from the hair color and the shreds of clothing.
Of course the ceremony was called off. How could it not be? Arthur, trying not to look ill, mounted the dais in the Great Hall and moved to the front of it. He ignored both Morgan and Guenevere. The crowd, noticing something odd in his manner, quieted without him asking them to. He announced softly that the ritual would be postponed, perhaps indefinitely. “Please, all of you, return to your rooms.”
And slowly the audience dispersed. Only Arthur and his close advisors remained.
Merlin approached him and put a hand on his arm. “Arthur, you should have asked them to stay here.”
Seemingly dazed, Arthur gaped at him. “Why, Merlin? Why, for heaven’s sake?”
“Until we could take account of who’s here and who isn’t. Now there’s no way we’ll ever know for certain.”
“Does it matter?”
“There’s been a murder, Arthur. We have to find who did it.”
Sadly, the king said, “I suppose you’re right. That poor boy. He was an excellent young man, Merlin. He and his brother. The best, the most promising I have. Had.”
Ganelin had been listening; he looked even more stunned than the king. “Thank you for saying so, Your Majesty. That would have meant a lot to him.”
They were now nearly alone in the hall, Arthur, Merlin, Mark, Britomart, Nimue and Ganelin. Nimue stood back from the others, not knowing what to say or do. All of them watched Arthur, waiting for some indication of what he was thinking and feeling.
Mark moved close to the king, looking grave. “We’ll find him. We’ll find the assassin.”
“Will we?” Arthur muttered. It was not so much a question as a resigned statement.