Untitled (35 page)

   Arthur worked out his frustrations with wrestling matches and footraces with his knights, who, like him, were feeling restless. Sagramore spoke for them when he com­ plained one day after a vigorous bout of wrestling. "Arthur, we were summoned here to form a jury. So far there is not even a hint of a trial."

   "Of course there are hints. Take a look in the Great Hall. You must have noticed it's being readied."

   "That's housekeeping, not a trial. We—"

   "Patience, Sag. The trial will happen soon enough. When Merlin gets back, I will lose no time—"

   "Why on earth do you need Merlin? Lancelot was found over the body with his knife in the man's neck. My fiveyear-old son could present a case that would convict him."

   "Said like an impartial juror. But are you offering to re­ tire and give your post to your son, Sag?"

   "No, of course not, but—"

   "Good. Then you must learn patience. This new England we are building takes time. Believe me, I know how trying it is. Besides, you have no idea what a nag Merlin can be. If we start without him I'll never hear the end of it."

   Sagramore made a face like he'd just drunk vinegar. "He's the next one you ought to clap in a dungeon. First Guenevere and Lancelot, then him."

   "Don't think the thought hasn't occurred to me. But you know how valuable he is. Camelot—England itself—owes him so much. Now go and get yourself some soup. No, some wine."

   Then, late that afternoon, the soldier Merlin had sent, still wearing his monk's robes in order to travel unrecog­ nized, arrived with Merlin's note to Nimue. She read it at once and went directly to Arthur.

   He scowled at it like a man who'd found a worm in his apple. "Delay. Delay. Doesn't he know I have a kingdom to run?"

   "The soldier who brought this was sent on ahead. But Merlin is on his way."

   "Splendid. No doubt he'll try to complicate matters even more. Why is everything such a tangle?"

   "If I might make a suggestion, Your Majesty . . ."

   "What?"

   "The clearest case against Lancelot is for the assassina­

tion of Leodegrance. Even a prosecutor as inexperienced as myself could win that conviction. It's the other killings that complicate the matter. Is it possible for us to try Lancelot for that one crime alone, for the time being, and delay the others till Merlin arrives with whatever information he's learned?"

   "Of course it's possible. I'm the king. I can do anything I like."

   "But the law—"

   "The law wants to see the guilty man punished. How quickly can you proceed?"

   "I can have everything ready by the day after tomor­ row."

   "Excellent, Colin. I will even give you an extra day, then. I will notify everyone involved that the trial of Lance­ lot for the murder of the French king will begin three days from now. My knights are getting restless; that should calm them down."

   "The case will be ready for presentation to a jury, Your Majesty. I'm not at all certain we could convince a jury of his peers that he committed the other crimes. Not yet, that is; not till Merlin is here. But there is one more thing."

   "Now what?"

   She held out Merlin's note. "Shall I have Captain Dalley arrest Jean-Michel?"

   Arthur rubbed his chin. "Merlin must have a good rea­ son for instructing us to do that. So, yes, see to it." He folded his arms and laughed. "My mother-in-law's gigolo in irons. Every now and then, life offers up genuine plea­ sures."

   "Yes, Your Majesty."

   "Leonilla won't be happy, Colin. She's certain to pro­ test."

   "Leonilla doesn't count for much. What with her king­ dom slipping out of her hands, slowly but surely; with her growing madness . . ."

   "There are people who think her madness is a sham. An act to cover up evil intent. She's been seen perfectly ra­ tional at times."

   "Even so, her power is all but gone."

   So first thing next morning Dalley and a half dozen guards went to the young man's chambers. They were lo­ cated conveniently next to Leonilla's own rooms. The old queen was nowhere in sight, and Dalley was glad of it; the confrontation, if it came at all, would at least not be imme­ diate.

   Jean-Michel's bedroom faced east; bright sunlight poured in through the window. He was lying on his bed, reading, when Dalley and his men arrived. "Jean-Michel de Pelisard, you are under arrest."

   He jumped to his feet. "Arrest? Me? On what charge?"

   "You will be informed of that at the proper time."

   He called out for help, and a moment later several ser­ vants appeared at the door. They smirked at him; one of them laughed openly. "The queen's favorite," one of them muttered and joined the laughter.

   Protesting and struggling against his captors, he was led away. The dungeon chosen for him was immediately next to Lancelot's. A wit had scrawled
Gigolo's Row
on the wall.

   "I want to know what I'm charged with," he complained to Dalley. "Don't I have that right?"

   "You have the right," Dalley told him offhandedly, "to stay quietly in your cell. Be a good lover boy and behave yourself."

   They left. Jean-Michel, clearly out of his depth, sat on the cold stone floor and sulked.

At Simon's instruction the Great Hall was decked in som­ ber colors: grays, dull browns, with just a touch of navy blue. That, in his mind, was "dignified" and proper for a capital trial.

   Nimue thought he had overdone it, and she said so. "Simon, it looks as if it's been prepared for a funeral." When she said as much to Arthur, as the two of them got into their judicial robes in the tiring-room, he shrugged and smiled, "Let us hope."

   "Please, Your Majesty. This is the first important oppor­ tunity we have to show the world that English justice—the king's justice—is a model of fairness and impartiality. It would not do for you to be too keen on Lancelot's convic­ tion."

   "The bastard stole my wife. Well, no, I suppose I never really had her. But he cuckolded me. How can I not want to see him permanently in irons, or worse?"

   "All I am suggesting is that you conduct the trial as fairly as you can. Justice will be done. There is no need for you to help it along."

   "God, I'd love to set you on Justinian. But your point is taken. I will make every effort to dispense the king's justice most admirably."

   "Excellent, Your Majesty."

   "But make me one promise, will you?"

   "Sir?"

   "Stop talking like Merlin all the time."

   "Sorry, Arthur."

   Arthur entered the hall, turned and rushed back out again. "Damn it, I almost forgot to wear my crown."

   Nimue adjusted it on his head to give him the most for­ midable look possible, and he hurried back out into the hall. At his waist he wore his sword, Excalibur, which had been polished to a brilliant sheen; it was the most impressive symbol of his majesty anyone could think of.

   He nodded to the large crowd of onlookers assembled there, then mounted a dais where a throne had been set up for him. He was dressed in ermine robes dyed a brilliant red; he had insisted on fur for his judicial attire. "You know how cold and drafty that hall gets." Simon had the tailors work overtime to have the robes ready.

   Just after Arthur, Nimue entered, likewise robed in fur. And she covered her head with a wig, partly for warmth and partly because this was the most important role she'd ever played, and she wanted to look the part. Besides, she had been passing as Colin for sufficiently long enough that presenting an ostentatiously male appearance felt right to her. A table had been set up; and all her assorted papers had been laid out for her there. Britomart and Captain Dalley sat there waiting for her.

   Brit whispered, "Red robes. You've come a long way quickly, Colin."

   "I am an agent of the king's justice. Besides, it was the only dye the tailors could find."

   The hall was crowded with people. Guenevere sat on a low throne to one side of the king, far enough away so that he would not have to talk to her. She looked as unhappy as anyone could remember. The night before, she had sent for Colin. "Where is your master? Where is Merlin? He has broken his word to me."

   Nimue was vague. "Lancelot is being tried for one mur­ der instead of three. I should think you'd be pleased."

   "He gave me his word."

   "Merlin's word is always subject to the king's assent. Surely as a queen you understand that."

   The entire Byzantine delegation was in the audience for the trial; one of them, at Eudathius's side, was evidently prepared to take notes on the proceedings. The remaining delegates—Germanicus, Andrea of Salesi and the rest— surrounded them.

   The household staff and even boys from the kitchen filled row after row of seats. In one corner stood Simon, smiling happily; his arrangements were perfect. This was to be the biggest event in years, more important even than the conference that had just ended.

   A wooden box had been erected on a platform; it was to hold the jury. For the moment Sagramore and the others were arrayed on two benches. None of them looked happy to be there.

   Sagramore stood and moved beside Nimue. "What is this about? Why have we not been seated in the box for the jury?"

   "Be quiet. Arthur is about to begin."

   "I asked you a question."

   She sighed. "I am to question you. All of you. We want a fair trial. If any of you seems to have made his mind up already, you will be dismissed from the jury. Arthur wants a panel of thirteen. The others will listen to the trial and stand by in case something happens to one of the actual jurors."

   "What will you ask us? We know what Arthur wants us to do."

   "He wants you to be fair. So do I. And I'm reasonably certain so does Lancelot."

   "What does he have to do with it?"

   She smiled sweetly. "He's on trial for his life. Haven't you heard?"

   Sagramore stiffened. Being talked to this way by a clerk! Then his eyes flashed and his jaw set. "Just a moment—are you saying that Lancelot will question us, too?"

   "He has a right to defend himself. The king says so."

   "King, my arse. This is Merlin's doing, to humiliate us."

   "Relax, will you, Sagramore? Arthur knows how vital you are to his reign. But surely it wll not diminish you to see that justice is done, will it?"

   Clearly unhappy, he resumed his seat. The other knights questioned him about what Colin had told him, but he sim­ ply sulked and wouldn't answer them.

   Guenevere sat on her throne glaring at everyone and everything in the hall, guarded closely by four of Brit's soldiers. She squirmed uncomfortably and waved her guards away. Quite pointedly, they remained beside her.

   No one had been able to find Leonilla that morning, so the throne that had been erected for her beside her daughter sat unoccupied. Simon joked that perhaps she had baked a file into a loaf of bread for her lover.

   Everything was ready. It was time to begin.

"Oyez, oyez!" Simon intoned. "All rise for Arthur, King of England, Scotland and Wales, Lord of These Islands, Ruler of Us All." There had been a lively discussion about precisely how Arthur was to be styled. Arthur, impatient as usual with protocol, said it didn't matter and refused to take part. Simon and Nimue had worked out the for­ mula.

   Arthur entered and crossed to his throne; trumpets sounded; everyone in the hall bowed. Dressed in his best robes and wearing Excalibur at his side, he resumed his place on his throne and waved the musicians silent. The entire hall became hushed.

   Ten guards led Lancelot into the hall, shackled hand and foot. He did not look good. His blond hair was unkempt; his clothes were soiled and disheveled. He took his place in the prisoner's box and sat glowering at Nimue.

   This was to be the first trial of its kind in all the years since Arthur had become king—the first under his new regime of justice and fairness for all. No one knew what to expect, and everyone was on edge. Nimue, prepared though she was, felt uncomfortable without a set of rules and precedents to guide her. Lancelot was working to con­ tain his anger. Petronilla was in a seat near the back of the hall, not moving, beside herself with anxiety that her story might be called into doubt. The knights fidgeted. The at­ mosphere in the Great Hall fairly quivered with tension. Even the people not directly involved in the trial were on edge.

   Arthur announced that Colin would make an opening statement, summarizing his case. Then Lancelot was to make a similar statement outlining his defense. Lancelot jumped to his feet. "Arthur—Your Majesty—I must protest. I am bound and guarded like a guilty man. No matter what I say to argue my innocence, my appearance cries out to everyone that I am guilty."

   Arthur furrowed his brow. The trial had only just begun and already things were not going smoothly. Arthur and Nimue consulted quickly. Then Arthur announced that be­ cause of the gross, heinous nature of the crime—the murder of a king, no less—the prisoner must remain bound.

   Guenevere jumped to her feet and protested. "Is this the fairness we have been promised? Is this King Arthur's justice?"

   Arthur banged the edge of his throne with Excalibur. "May I remind you, Guenevere, that you are a prisoner, too? You have no standing in these proceedings; you are here merely as a courtesy, since you are so, er, closely con­ nected to the accused. Please take your seat and remain silent, or you will be removed." Her guards moved to sur­ round her closely, and, thus humiliated, she glumly sat down again.