Untitled (37 page)

   He folded his hands serenely. "Arthur wants it."

   "You've had my brother in the palm of your hand for years."

   "Even so. He is the king. His wish is your command, or should be. It is the will of the gods that he be king—that he should rule and we should follow. You said so yourself, at his coronation."

   "If you think it behooves us to follow him," she smirked, "why do you lead him by the nose so blatantly?"

   "Really, Morgan. No one is asking you to do a thing that might weaken your position as high priestess or that might cast any kind of doubt on your gods and goddesses."

   Morgan was thinking. Merlin could almost see the wheels turning in her head. After a long moment she leaned back in her chair, folded her arms and smiled at him. "And suppose the gods tell me not to help you with this?"

   It was the moment he had been waiting for. "How could they? They must know what else I have in mind."

   She laughed at him. "And what would that be?"

   Slowly, calmly, Merlin told her, "You want the Chris­ tians to make no inroads here. Presumably that is the will of your gods also."

   "
Our
gods," she corrected him.

   "Yes, of course. And what would please
our
gods in that respect?"

   Still smirking at him she said, "I'm thirsty. Let me call a servant and have him bring us wine."

   "I am not at all thirsty, myself. Answer my question."

   She had been about to clap her hands to summon some­

one; she stopped and turned to face Merlin directly. "I want the Christians out of England. No bishops, no popes must impinge on the time-honored ways."

   Merlin exhaled slowly. "Quite frankly, Morgan, I am not certain that can be done. You know perfectly well that most of Western Europe has been Christianized."

   "Does that mean we must be, too?"

   "Of course not. But what you are suggesting could eas­ ily have unfortunate consequences. If the Pope—I keep forgetting his name—"

   "Honorius," she prompted.

   "Yes. If Honorius were to plead for support from any of the monarchs . . . it might even lead to war. And we would almost certainly lose. Where would the time-honored ways be then? Do you want to see Christianity imposed on us at sword point?"

   She froze momentarily. "Point taken. But this parvenu, Gildas—"

   "Yes?"

   "Confine him. Keep him here, or at Camelot. Give him no scope to spread his—let us be generous and not call it a superstition."

   "Indeed, let us not. And if I agree to this?"

   "Surely you mean if Arthur agrees."

   He was beginning to feel impatient, "Yes, of course. If Arthur agrees to this . . . ?"

   "Then I will do what you want tonight."

   "Done."

   Finally Morgan called a servant and had him bring wine. She and Merlin toasted their bargain. When she had fin­ ished her second cup she grinned at him. "Good heavens, I do enjoy being high priestess. But now you must tell me what you want me to say and do."

   Merlin was feeling smug, too. "It will take place in pri­ vate, so there is very little to rehearse. But we must spread the word about what you are supposedly doing. Everyone in the Spider's House must know."

"What?" Arthur glared. "You promised her what?"

   Merlin's eyes twinkled. "Relax, Arthur. I need her help tonight. That was the only way to get it."

   "You had no authority to promise her such a thing,"

   "Do you think I don't know that? Even she knows it, but I managed to persuade her to overlook it."

   "Honestly, Merlin." The king sighed, exasperated.

   "You keep saying you want the assassin exposed. We have suspects, we have motives, but no concrete evidence. This has an excellent chance of providing it."

   "You said that about your holiday in France."

   "Holiday? You call traipsing around the Pyrenees in a rain­ storm a holiday? Besides, I got some valuable information."

   "Why don't you do this yourself? Why drag Morgan into it?" The king paced; Merlin followed him, wishing he would slow down.

   "That is simple." He stopped following Arthur and sat in a nearby chair. "I don't want anything convincing people I am a wizard or that I traffic in the supernatural. I've spent a lifetime attempting to build a reputation as a man of reason. Morgan peddles her mumbo-jumbo everywhere she goes. She is the logical choice."

   Arthur stood face-to-face with him. "But will she do it when she finds out I have no intention of confining Gildas? The man is a tiresome nag, granted. A downright bore. Do you know he tried to tell me drinking is wrong? Of course, you always tell me the same thing, but . . . But if Morgan thinks I might be willing to confine someone simply be­ cause he believes in a different pack of sins than she does, she hasn't been paying attention."

   "Your England is not hers, Arthur. But all you have to do is not tell her so, and there will be peace."

   He narrowed his eyes. "When she sees Gildas moving freely about the country, she just might guess."

   "That will take months. By then we will have resolved this matter. Arthur, this will work."

   "And what makes you so certain Jean-Michel didn't do the killings?"

   "Well, primarily it is the fact that he had no conceivable motive. Leodegrance was the source of his 'lover's' power, so why kill him? And why would he kill Podarthes or Marthe at all? Besides, Beliveau told me he stole those knives but that it seemed out of character for him. Have you ever heard of a gigolo with enterprise?"

   "Point taken. But the mere fact that we can't think of a motive for him doesn't mean he didn't have one."

   "Arthur, this will work. Quite honestly, if it does not, I have no idea what will."

All day more and more rumors, carefully planted, circulated through the castle. Something was afoot. Morgan le Fay, High Priestess of England, was to conduct a séance that night, they said. She was to attempt to conjure up the ghost of Jean-Michel, the gossip claimed. When anyone asked Morgan, Merlin or Arthur, the rumors were denied. Yet they would not die; they gained more and more circulation.

   At midnight the three of them, along with Britomart and Simon of York, gathered at the young man's room. They were attended by a dozen servants with candles and another dozen boys carrying incense burners. Sweet smoke filled the air. On a cue from Morgan the incense boys began to chant a Celtic hymn to the dead.

   More and more curious bystanders gathered in the hall outside the room. Necks craned; noses intruded. Arthur summoned guards to keep them at a distance.

   Morgan, in her customary black robes, intoned prayers that were echoed softly by the others. Then they all formed into a procession with Morgan at the head. Slowly, sol­ emnly, accompanied by the incessant chanting of the atten­ dants, they left the chamber and began to walk through the halls of Corfe. Boys chanted hymns; they filled the halls with incense. Guards cleared the way.

   At the rear of the procession, Britomart whispered to Merlin, "This doesn't make sense. People will be suspi­ cious."

   "Let them be."

   "The place to do the séance is his room."

   "His room is too small, Brit. You saw how we were packed in there. Besides, a procession will get us noticed, which is precisely what we want. Keeping this secret would defeat the purpose."

   And so the odd procession proceeded, followed by more and more curious gawkers. The guards had been carefully instructed to make token efforts to show disapproval but not to do anything that might actually scatter them.

   Their route through the castle was the longest, most cir­ cuitous one possible. Morgan, her robes billowing in the castle's drafts, walked it slowly, permitting the hymns and the incense to attract more and more spectators. The gen­ eral mood was more celebratory than solemn, despite the chanting and the grave demeanor of the principals. People who would normally have been in bed at that hour savored the diversion.

   When, finally, they reached the Great Hall, dozens of people were following them, knights, diplomats, servants, people from every stratum of the castle's closed little soci­ ety. The procession halted and Arthur stood at the door; he cleared his throat loudly and addressed the crowd. "Please, all of you, you must understand that we have embarked on a perilous undertaking. To disturb the dead carries danger. Once disturbed, the dead do not easily return to their rest. We are doing what we must in the one place with doors that close. Please respect that. We have no wish to put any of you at risk."

   In the crowd Sir Sagramore shouted, "So it is that, then. You are raising the spirit of the dead French boy."

   "I have said no such thing." To Morgan, he said, "Come, let us begin."

   "Wait!" From among the onlookers Bishop Gildas stepped forward. "This is blasphemous. The sacred book clearly condemns divination through the agency of the dead."

   Morgan sneered at him. "Does the sacred book condone the protection of their murderers then?"

   She, Merlin and the rest of their party turned their backs on him and entered the Great Hall. Guards pushed the heavy doors shut behind them, barred them with thick wooden beams and suggested that everyone return to their business. But they made no move to actually drive anyone away. And when the crowd began to inch toward the door, the guards stood back and let them do so.

   For what seemed an eternity nothing more happened. No voices were heard inside the hall. The smell of incense came from under the door, and candlelight could be seen flickering, but there was not the slightest sign of activity or even movement inside. Then at length Morgan's voice could be heard, intoning still more prayers.

   From the hallway behind the crowd came a weak voice. "What is going on here?"

   Some people turned to see Leonilla approaching them, walking heavily on a cane of blackthorn.

   "What are they doing?" she demanded.

   Sagramore stepped toward her. "We don't know for cer­ tain, Your Majesty. But word has it they are attempting to contact the spirit of your servant Jean-Michel."

   She stopped walking; she virtually froze in place. Then, finally, she spoke one word. "Fools."

   She turned and went on her way. After a moment every­ one turned back to the huge wooden door. Suddenly Sagramore cried out, "What are we doing here? There are other doors!"

   Followed by a dozen people, mostly knights and squires, he rushed off, only to find the other entrances to the Great Hall similarly closed, barred and guarded. Sagramore growled in frustration and struck the stone floor with his sword.

   From inside the Great Hall came Morgan's voice, chant­ ing more loudly and insistently, accompanied by her chorus of boys. Ears were pressed to doors, but no one could make out in a definite way what was happening inside. Sagra­ more's party went back to the main entrance of the hall.

   This went on for long, long moments, and still it was impossible to tell for certain what Morgan and the rest were doing. The thick smell of incense began to make some peo­ ple nauseated; others developed headaches. The crowd be­ gan to thin out. Sagramore, increasingly impatient, made a move to pound on the door; the guards sprang to action and stopped him.

   Then, at length, everything inside became quiet. Some­ one tapped on the door and instructed to guards to open it and to disperse the crowd. Arthur emerged first, followed by Morgan, then Britomart, then all the rest. Merlin lin­ gered behind.

   Sagramore went inside to confront him. "What hap­ pened? What were you doing in here?"

   Merlin appeared distracted, or perhaps disappointed. "Nothing."

   "Don't be evasive. I want to know what the king was doing."

   From the corner of his eye Merlin glanced at the knight. "A prayer service." He smiled, then added, "Of sorts."

   "Don't make me laugh. What would you be doing at a

prayer service? Everyone knows you're the most irreligious man in England."

   "Shouldn't you be off someplace with the other jurors?"

   Sagramore snorted, turned his back and stormed away. Most of the crowd was gone. Merlin stood alone in the Great Hall, savoring the odor of the incense, and smiled to himself.

For the rest of the evening, predictably, gossip spread. No one knew for certain that the service Morgan had conducted had been a séance, but it gave every appearance of being that. But whose spirit had she tried to contact? Jean-Michel seemed the likeliest candidate, but there were people who argued that it must have been Leodegrance, Podarthes or even the maid Marthe.

   Equally predictably, it was Sir Sagramore who re­ peated—and magnified—all the rumors and speculation most energetically. And he was eager to tell anyone who would listen that the séance appeared to have been a failure. Everyone emerging from the Great Hall had looked disap­ pointed, not to say crestfallen. Whatever they had wanted to do had not been accomplished.

   By late that night, well past midnight, despite all this activity, most of the castle's occupants were asleep as usual. It had been a long, eventful day. And once all the furor about the séance had begun to die down, the trial was on most everyone's mind as well. It was in recess but would resume soon enough. Following the conference, this new major event at Corfe was equally exciting, if not more so.

   But the castle was asleep, along with most of its occu­ pants, and these thoughts of trials and arcane rituals oc­ curred in the minds of sleeping women and men. The ones still awake had more immediate things on their minds. Guards worked not to fall asleep at their posts; conscien­ tious cooks toiled in the refectory, beginning to prepare the next morning's breakfast; servants cleaned the castle's pub­ lic spaces. Until—