Untitled (22 page)

   "The facts would make that difference, if they can be verified."

   "Facts?" He seemed genuinely puzzled by the word. "Kings manufacture facts to suit their whims. The things called facts are nothing but political tools."

   "Yes, facts." Merlin repeated the word with emphasis.

   "You're French, Lancelot," Arthur added, "but even so you should be able to understand what facts are."

   "I didn't kill the damned old fool. That is the only fact."

   "Then who did, do you suppose?"

   "Kings have enemies. Old, vulnerable kings have more."

   "What enemies?"

   The French knight glared. "You think I'm going to an­ swer that?"

   "I think you want to save yourself from hanging."

   He fell silent.

   "Come now, Lancelot." Merlin was the soul of patience for the prisoner's benefit. "All we want is to hear your ac­ count of what happened that morning. Where is the harm in that? It might do you a world of good."

   "And it might not." He sulked. "But . . ."

   "Yes?"

   "Nothing. Never mind."

   Arthur was beginning to lose patience. "Look, you do understand your situation, don't you? We have a witness who says you stabbed him. A trusted witness. And the murder weapon was yours, or rather your wife's. My wife's."

   "Witness? What witness could you possibly have?"

   "Why, Petronilla, of course. She was there with you. She saw the whole horrible affair, and she is prepared to testify to it in court."

   "Petronilla! That bitch!"

   "The queen's private secretary. Who could be more reli­ able?"

"Almost anyone could. That lying bitch."

   "You are repeating yourself, Lancelot. Why should we believe she would lie about this? What would it gain her?"

   "Revenge," he said softly.

   Arthur smirked and stepped back a few paces to lean against the opposite wall. Merlin pressed on. "Revenge? For what? You and Guenevere took her into your household and gave her a privileged position. Are we to believe she wanted revenge for that?"

   He looked up at Merlin as if he were the dumbest man on earth. "She wanted me to marry her."

   "She—! What?"

   "She was—is—in love with me."

   "For heaven's sake, Lancelot. She had only just seen you marry the queen. How could she expect—?"

   "She expected it because I told her I would, that's why."

   "You—?"

   "Or at least I told her I loved her." He looked from Mer­ lin to Arthur, then stared down at the cell floor. "We were having an . . . I was . . . we were sleeping together."

   "On your honeymoon." Arthur's voice dripped with sar­ casm.

   "She is young and pretty. She was willing. And Guene­ vere . . . well, let's just say the fires of love don't burn bright in her."

   "You're telling me that?"

   Lancelot laughed bitterly. "I thought she would be dif­ ferent with me. When we were courting, she . . . you know."

   "Yes, I know only too well. But Guenevere is not like other women. Ambition flows in her veins, not blood. Copulation for her is a political tactic to be used like any other. Once she has a man, she sees no need to do it any­ more."

   "Don't remind me. I was a fool. We were both her fools. I love her, I really do. But I need sex, like any other man."

   The interrogation was getting far off track. Merlin de­ cided to take charge. "And so you began an affair with her secretary."

   "Yes." He was glum.

   "And promised to leave Guenevere for her."

   "Yes."

   "You French are supposed to be such skilled lovers. Couldn't you have come up with something more origi­ nal?"

   "I'm a knight, not a troubadour."

   "So, you are telling us that Petronilla is lying about what happened, to revenge herself on you for, shall we say, toy­ ing with her?"

   "Yes. Or maybe she's just crazy. Either way, I did not kill Leodegrance."

   "You had a motive. He opposed your 'marriage' to Guenevere."

   "That was a done fact. His opposition never counted for much. Leonilla was the real power in Camelliard, and she wanted us married."

   Arthur snorted. "Mothers-in-law."

   Merlin ignored the interruption. "So tell us what hap­ pened."

   Lancelot paused and took a deep breath, as if remember­ ing, or concentrating, was difficult for him. "Well . . . we had slept late. We were late for breakfast."

   "She spent the night with you?"

   The knight nodded.

   "Guenevere has her spies, as you well know. Wasn't that risky?"

   "Of course. But Petronilla was quartered close to me. In the room next to mine, in fact. It was easy enough for us to visit each other in the night. When we woke that morning, she began pressing me again. When would I tell Guenevere? When would I leave her? When would we be married? As if any man in his right mind would leave a queen for a servant. I put her off, as I had a dozen times before, but she wouldn't let up."

   Arthur interjected, "A good warrior should admire such relentlessness."

   Lancelot glanced at him but decided to ignore the jab. "When we finally dressed and headed for the refectory, she kept at it. I told her to be quiet, someone might hear, but she wouldn't stop. So I put on speed and moved ahead of her. There was nothing else to do. She was wearing one of those heavy beaded gowns and couldn't keep up with me.

   "When I turned the corner into the main corridor leading to the dining hall, there was Leodegrance. Already dead, or nearly so. He was on the floor, and the knife was stuck in his throat. Blood was everywhere. His body was convulsing. I took a few steps toward him, but he stopped moving."

   "That is all?"

   Lancelot nodded.

   "And you did not see anyone else?"

   He thought; he tried to focus. "There was someone down the corridor ahead of me. I couldn't see clearly. In an instant she was gone."

   "She?"

   "He, then."

   "You are not suggesting Petronilla did the murder?"

   "No, of course not. She was behind me, not ahead."

   "But Lancelot, why did you say
she
?"

   "Whoever it was was wearing a gown."

   "A gown?" For the first time Merlin's attention was up. "Are you certain? Could it have been a man's robe of some description? Half the legates here wear them, especially in a castle as drafty as this one."

   He shrugged. "They might have been robes. As I told you, I got only the briefest glimpse. The next thing I knew, Petronilla had caught up with me. When she saw what had happened she began shrieking like a madwoman, and a moment later everyone came."

"And Petronilla accused you."

   "Yes. She was angry, furious. The bishops always say that hell has no fury like a discarded woman."

   Arthur stepped away from the wall he'd been leaning against and stood next to Merlin. "Petronilla is nothing in the fury department. Wait until Guenevere hears your story. She seethes with rage even when she hasn't been misused."

   "Queens are difficult. Her mother—"

   "Guenevere is so much like her mother it frightens me."

   "Anyway, she loves me. She will forgive me. When I fall into her arms and do my 'I'm an impulsive little boy' act, she melts. It has never failed." He sounded quite pleased with himself.

   "She has caught you being unfaithful before this? And forgiven you?" Arthur sounded amazed. "This side of her is one I've never seen before."

   "She knew that I had tupped a few scullery maids and so on."

   "Screwing her personal secretary may seem different to her. I'd be careful, if I were you. Impulsive little boys can only get away with so much."

   "You think she might divorce me?" He sounded alarmed.

   "You'd be lucky if that's all she did."

   "But—but—I've never cheated on her before. Not with anyone of consequence."

   Both Arthur and Merlin burst out laughing. "Save the innocent act for her, will you? Your womanizing is legen­ dary across half of Western Europe. What is the name of that bastard son you have in France? Gilead or something, isn't it?"

   "Galahad." He sulked. "A horrible kid. Completely in­ sufferable. I'm ashamed that he's mine. He takes what the priests teach seriously. Goes around boasting about how pure he is. No one can stand him." Then he realized what Arthur had said. He blinked. "But you have better intelli­ gence than I thought, I'm impressed."

   "You should be impressed by more than my espionage network. Guenevere has begged us to free you and find what she calls the real murderer. Presumably the owner of those robes you saw vanish around the corner."

   "Guenevere? Begged?" He couldn't hide his astonishment.

   Arthur nodded, smiling. "She has not forgotten who the real power is in England. Neither should you. We have enough evidence to convict you at trial, Lancelot. You know what that will mean."

   "Yes." He turned glum. "My head."

   "Is there anything else you can tell Merlin and me that might help your case?"

   Sullenly he shook his head.

   "We'll just be going, then."

   Lancelot sprang to his feet. "Arthur, please. I've served you ill. I've never been loyal to you, not since I arrived in England. But I know you. You believe in justice, in fair­ ness. Do not execute me for a crime you know I didn't commit."

   "I know you
say
you didn't commit it. That is not quite the same thing. Every murderer on record—"

   "I wouldn't lie to you, not about this."

   Arthur paused and smiled. "I know. You're just an im­ pulsive little boy."

   Lancelot's features froze. "I suppose I deserve that."

   "Of course you do. But what else do you deserve? That is the real question here, isn't it?"

   Merlin also paused in the doorway. "Oh, and by the way . . ."

   "Yes? What else?"

   "We've uncovered the agent you sent to assassinate Ar­ thur. I hope you were not counting on him to do his job. You will have to pin your hopes on something else, I fear."

   "That little rat Petronus. What has he told you?"

   "A great deal." Merlin grinned. "Thank you for the veri­ fication."

   A moment later the king and his advisor left their pris­ oner to sulk and wonder how badly he had hurt his case. Arthur had found the interview highly satisfactory; Merlin had his doubts.

"What on earth do you make of that?" Arthur walked briskly back to his rooms.

   "Lies. Or so I would guess. Lancelot is the only logical suspect. Who else could have done the killing?"

   Arthur shrugged. "We have a castle full of men with ul­ terior motives. England should have stayed a backwater. You will question Petronilla again?"

   "Do you really think it would accomplish anything, Arthur?"

   "It might make Lancelot's story more plausible."

   Merlin sighed. "And this was looking so neat."

   "Do you want neatness, or do you want the truth?"

   "That is a question you should ask yourself, Arthur. You have Guenevere's pledge of loyalty. You have her 'husband' in jail. You have gained the recognition—at least some recognition—of the international community. Why upset the applecart?"

   "Question Petronilla again. Better yet, search her room. She may have been foolish enough to keep a diary or some­ thing."

   Merlin made an ostentatious bow. "As you wish, Your Majesty."

   "And don't be a smartass."

"Your wife is . . . a prisoner?" Podarthes smiled at Arthur and adopted the faux-humble demeanor of a professional courtier.

   The king, Merlin and Britomart were receiving him pri­ vately. He seemed mildly put off by it; Byzantine grandees were used to attention and considered it their due. Nimue was in attendance, taking notes, and four guards were sta­ tioned at the corners of the room. Podarthes was dressed, rather pointedly, much more magnificently than anyone else present. His golden cloak shimmered in torchlight. Nimue found the ostentation amusing.

   Arthur frowned at the ambassador. "My wife is, shall we say, indisposed. But it is not her wish that we discuss the reasons."

   "I see. Perhaps it is merely her time of the month, then? But I am quite at your service, Your Majesty. On what sub­ ject may I enlighten you?"

   "You may," Merlin interjected, "explain why you have been in England for nearly a month without presenting yourself. You must certainly be aware of how . . . irregular that is. We have already drafted a letter to Justinian protest­ ing formally."

   "Our ship was blown off course. We landed somewhere to the north. The country was unfamiliar to us, and so . . ." Podarthes smiled; he didn't expect them to believe a word of it.

   "Mightn't you have asked for directions? And why would you have come here so early—a month before the queen's birthday?"

   "Surely it is not unusual for a ship to be blown off course here. English weather is notorious everywhere. This storm that is raging outside now, for instance. Do you think it will let up anytime soon?"

   Arthur smiled. "There has been only one report of a ves­ sel being blown astray by this wind. And that was one of yours, en route to France. And now your ship . . . You are pinning a great deal on the wind. Or perhaps you ought to find better navigators."

   "Just so, Your Majesty. But I was under the impression you wished to open diplomatic talks."

   Britomart was in an impatient mood. "That is exactly what we're trying to do, Podarthes. What have you been doing here? And how did you escape the notice of our agents for all that time?"