The Excalibur Murders (16 page)

When the meat was finished roasting on its spit, they ate, and it was delicious. Byrrhus poured large cups of red wine. At one point a squirrel scampered in and went directly to Byrrhus. He stroked its head and it nestled beside him, quite improbably. But when Nimue reached out to pet it, it ran off in alarm. "You have the taint of human society," Byrrhus said.

After Byrrhus and Brit had had time to reminisce, Merlin turned the conversation to Pellenore. "None of us knew him back in his good days. What was he like?"

"He was a good king. He believed in justice and fairness and equality. He built a court based on them, and it was quite wonderful till Arthur came along and destroyed it."

"But--but--" Nimue couldn't grasp this. "But Arthur is dedicated to those same ideals. We all know it. Camelot is the best place to be."

"Then why didn't he simply join himself to Pellenore? Why squash him?"

There was no answer. Merlin interjected, "Was he mad back then, too? You should see him now, galloping about Camelot, chasing phantoms."

Byrrhus bit pointedly into a cut of beef. "There are monsters at Camelot. And they are real."

"Nonsense. Arthur is a good king." Merlin was testy.

"Pellenore . . ." Byrrhus lapsed into silence for a moment. Then he seemed to find himself. "Losing his lands and his castle--losing everything he had worked so patiently to build--devastated him. That was what unhinged him, if anything really did. He used to talk about killing Arthur and reclaiming it all. He promised that some day he would."

Merlin exchanged glances with Brit, then with Nimue. "Did you believe him capable of it, Byrrhus? Really capable of it?"

"He lost his bearings, moral, intellectual, political, social . . . It was so sad to watch." He looked from one of them to the next. "I don't know what he was capable of. And I didn't want to know. That is why I left."

None of this was what Merlin wanted to hear. In the space of a brief, odd conversation Pellenore went from being an unlikely suspect to a likely one. "What precisely unhinged him? Was it the loss of his lands or the fact that he became a mere vassal of the king?"

"Does it make a difference? None of you is drinking your wine."

"We had some terrible beer at the inn. The wine wouldn't go well with it." Nimue was not at all certain what to believe about Pellenore now. "You know what they say--never mix the grape and the grain."

From nowhere a strong gust of wind blew through the temple. "The gods." Byrrhus smiled. "They don't like me living in their houses and desecrating them with cook fires. I use the temple of Mercury for a privy. Someday they'll take their revenge on me."

Brit got to her feet. "You seem to be surviving them well enough."

"They'll get me someday. There's a boy in the village who is a werewolf. They'll send him for me."

Like Brit, Merlin and Nimue stood. They thanked him for his hospitality and made excuses about having to go. Brit hugged him and told him, "You're as strong as Stonehenge.No mere werewolf could hurt you. Be well, Byrrhus."

A few minutes later they were on their horses and heading back down to London. None of them said much.

But later, by the fire at the inn with more of Robert's bad beer, they went over their encounter.

"I don't see any room to doubt that he's mad." Merlin sounded glum. "We didn't learn a thing that's helpful."

"I don't know." Brit swirled the beer in her cup. "Just because he prefers rodents to human beings . . . I mean, who wouldn't?"

"And belief in Mars and Mercury? He's quite daft, Brit."

"Byrrhus seemed the most wonderful man possible when I was a girl. Now . . . But does that mean everything he said must be mad?" Brit avoided looking at Merlin, not wanting to see the answer in his eyes.

Nimue pushed her cup away. "I mean, yes, he believes the Roman gods hate him. But does that necessarily mean what he says about Pellenore is nonsense, too?"

"No. I think . . ." Merlin suddenly seemed lost in thought. "I think we have to believe that, at least provisionally. Pellenore is a more viable suspect than any of us believed. "

"Slightly more viable, anyway." Brit sipped her beer, made a sour face and put it aside. "Even if he wanted to kill Arthur however many years ago, does that necessarily mean he still does? And how does that translate into killing his squires?"

"If he's mad it might." Nimue avoided looking at her.

Merlin stood. "I'm spent. Let's get to sleep. There's no way to answer these questions. All we know for certain is that we'll have to watch Pellenore carefully from now on."

"Arthur won't like it."

"Arthur can't very well tell us who to watch, can he?"

They said their good nights and went to their respective rooms.

There was a large, lively fire in the one Merlin and Nimue were to share. She told him to take the bed; she'd be happy curled up by the hearth. Just before he nodded off, she asked him, "Merlin?"

"Hm?"

"What if Arthur won't go along with us?"

"I'm not sure what you mean."

"Well, suppose we learn who did the killings--I mean really learn, beyond any reasonable doubt--and he won't believe us?"

He sat up in the bed and stared at her. "You have no faith in the king's wisdom and justice?"

"He's already expressed skepticism about all of our suspects. "

"I can't think about that now. I'm too tired. Tomorrow. We'll have plenty of time to talk it through on the road to Corfe and Guenevere."

FIVE

THE SPIDER'S HOUSE

The next morning there was brilliant sunlight. The three of them had more of Robert's bad food for breakfast. Britomart wondered aloud whether their meal actually included Caesar's bones. Merlin settled with Robert and made certain of the directions to Corfe.

Robert's stable had a leaky roof. The horses were wet and irritable. Brit and Nimue spent some time drying them with cloths and currying them before they set off. While they were at it, Merlin wandered off on his own.

The town was more awake today. People came and went, on this bit of business or that. He tried to engage a few people in conversation, but they were unpleasantly taciturn. What was Londinium's chief industry? The ground did not seen right for farming. The river might provide transport for trade, but there wasn't much traffic on it. He wondered why England was so full of mysteries.

When he got back to the inn, Brit and Nimue had saddled and loaded the horses and were waiting for him. They set off on the same road they'd used the day before, the one past the old sacred precinct. In the sunlight the temples appeared even gloomier. There was no sign of Byrrhus.

The packhorses were carrying supplies Robert had procured for them. Brit complained about it. "So we eat still more of that man's dry meat and sour beer. Why not just dine at the next swamp we come to?"

By noon the sky began to cloud up again, and it gave her still more to complain about. "English winters. I'd love to know who first decided this island was a good place to live."

"For once I agree with you, Brit." Merlin had been nodding off in the saddle. "Humanity should confine itself to the warm, pleasant parts of the earth."

"How many of those are there?"

"There are enough. I've seen them. North Africa, that's the place."

"Whatever brought you back to England, then?"

"Don't ask."

She looked back the way they'd come. "One thing's for certain. Londinium is dying and will die. Twenty years from now it will be deserted."

"Good."

The road south to the coast was better than the one they'd taken to Londinium. Wider, smoother. And there was more traffic. Despite his antisocial nature, Merlin was happy to see more people. If nothing else, it indicated healthier weather. They came to a town called Greenwich and found an inn called the Tusk and Claw where the food was delicious. The landlord and his wife were plump and cordial; she told her guests they'd bought the place from an old Italian who had originally called it the Tuscan Law. Brit immediately ordered more supplies there and dumped in the river the ones they'd bought from Robert.

Nimue watched her, amused. "You shouldn't do that. The Thames is dirty enough already. That beer might kill the fish."

"The fish can fend for themselves. I never want to taste anything that foul again."

Merlin stretched out on the riverbank and chimed in, "Wait till we get to Corfe. Have you ever had French cooking? "

"Will we be staying at the castle, then?" Brit seemed surprised. "I took it for granted we'd be quartered with the soldiers there."

"If we're invited, we should definitely stay with Guenevere, don't you think? After all, we're going there to pry into her affairs. And Lancelot's."

Nimue listened to the exchange. "I've never been to Corfe. I don't think I knew there was a garrison there."

"A fine one. It's one of our most important ports." Brit was in her element. "We could hardly leave it unguarded."

"It doesn't make sense that Guenevere would have settled there, then. I mean, why would she want to be where Arthur's men could keep an eye on her?"

"It's never made sense to anyone, Colin. I mean, it is one of the best ports in England, so if the French wanted to invade, it would make a logical landing place for them. But the landing force would have to be enormous to overcome our men. Leodegrance doesn't have anywhere near that many men."

"Leode--who?"

"Guenevere's father," Merlin explained.

"Oh. But--but I still don't understand why Guenevere chose to live at Corfe Castle of all the places in England."

Merlin and Britomart looked at one another and shrugged. He said, "I've often wondered if Guenevere is as crafty as she likes to think."

Brit finished her dumping, they took a short walk around the town to help digest their food, and then full and satisfied, they resumed their journey to the south coast. The horses settled into a comfortable pace, and the three travelers settled into a comfortable silence. There were still plenty of other people on the road.

"We should have Arthur designate this a king's highway or something." Nimue was enjoying the trip. "And that inn, the Tusk and Claw--he should buy all his provisions there. It's better food than I ever tasted at Camelot."

Merlin enjoyed her enthusiasm. "Maybe we can simply kidnap the cook."

"I'm serious, Merlin."

"You don't find the name of the place ominous?"

"Never mind."

At dinnertime they stopped to eat in Bournemouth then moved on. They reached the coast road to Corfe just at twilight.

A long, sloping grade went down to the ocean, where the town sat. One ship was anchored in the harbor. Merlin was surprised; he said there was normally more traffic.

Above the town, secure between two hills, was the castle. It was large and dark, more enormous than any building Nimue had seen. Brit told her it had originally been a Romanfortress. "This is one of the best natural ports in the country. No one could miss its strategic importance."

It was not at all a typical castle. There was no curtain wall surrounding it, and not even a moat. To all appearances it was quite open and vulnerable. But on closer inspection its unusual design became evident. There was a central keep, octagonal in shape, rising some eighty feet. From it, eight wings extended. And each of them was topped with heavy fortifications. Anyone trying to attack the castle would have met with a rain of arrows from several directions.

"And the Romans built all this?"

"No, I think they only built the central keep."

Merlin told her, "The castle goes back centuries. Some people think it must be the oldest in England. It's so ancient no one remembers who added all those arms. But they certainly date from before the rise of modern castle construction. "

"Arms? Is that a formal architectural term, Merlin?" Brit asked.

He smiled. "No, but arms they are. Eight of them. The townspeople whose lives are dominated by it call it the Spider's House. I've never been certain whether that refers to the castle itself or to its chief occupant."

Clouds had built up steadily all afternoon. At least the temperature had remained on the mild side; there wouldn't be snow. But a stiff wind roiled the Atlantic; huge waves were breaking all around. The ship in Corfe's harbor rocked wildly.

The town was smaller than Nimue expected, but it was full of people, all of them evidently busy. And prosperous. A good harbor draws trade, and trade draws wealth. There were even women who were brazenly open about being streetwalkers.

The roar of the waves was clearly audible from every spot they passed. They found a little inn and had some spiced wine. Then Brit led them to the garrison and identified them to one of the guards on duty. Another one went off to find the commander. The three of them waited just inside the walls.

"You're one of Arthur's military commanders, Brit." Merlin was annoyed to be kept waiting. "Don't they know you?"

"I haven't been here in years. But the commandant is an old friend."

A moment later a man wearing chain mail for no apparent reason came and greeted them. He and Brit embraced warmly, and she introduced him to Merlin as Captain John Dalley, the garrison commander. He shook their hands vigorously and led them through the courtyard and Common Room to his office, where they had more wine.

"I thought someone from Camelot might come, once word of that ship spread. But how did you manage to get here so fast?"

"What about the ship?" He had caught Brit off guard.

"Didn't you get a look at it? It's French." He lowered his voice and looked around conspiratorially. "Guenevere's father. "

"Leodegrance, here? Why haven't you notified the king?"

"The ship put in late this afternoon. You should have seen all the fanfare and fuss when she turned out to welcome him. I was just drafting a letter to Camelot now."

"I see. Do you have any idea what he's doing here?"

Dalley shrugged. "It could be anything from visiting his daughter to planning a war to welcoming a new addition to the family tree."

Merlin spoke up. "Guenevere is pregnant?"