J. M. C. Blair

The Excalibur Murders

The first book in the Merlin Investigation series, 2008

ONE. A DEATH AT CAMELOT

“Good heavens, look at them, Colin. They actually enjoy hitting each other. And hurting each other. I don’t think I’ll ever get used to that.” Merlin stood at the window at the top of his tower in Camelot. A large raven sat perched on his shoulder, and another one sat on the windowsill beside him; he fed them from a pocketful of bread crumbs. Below in the courtyard knights were exercising, which meant drilling with sword and shield. The clang of metal on metal rang clearly, as did their cries and grunts.

“They slice each other to slivers, then come to me and expect me to heal them,” he grumped.

“You are a wizard, after all.”

“Be quiet. I am a modestly skilled doctor, no more, and you know it.”

Merlin’s study was large and circular. Rough stone walls were lined with shelves of scrolls and parchments. There were four chairs and a rough-hewn wooden table. Some manuscripts were spread out on it; his assistant held another one and studied it. It was nearly sundown. Two torches gave the light.

“They seem fixed on the belief that the only reasonable way to resolve a conflict is by hitting someone or something. ”

The assistant read without looking up. “I’m surprised more of them don’t kill each other.”

“There are accidents all the time.”

“I mean actual murders. You know them, Merlin. Jealousy, rivalry, spite…”

Merlin leaned against the window. “We’re a civilized court, Ni-Colin.”

“Nonsense.” The assistant put down the scroll and joined Merlin at the window. “I wish you’d call me by my right name when we’re alone. If I’m not careful, I’ll actually start to think I really am Colin. Not that I don’t enjoy being him. Cutting my hair, dyeing it and donning men’s clothes was perhaps the smartest thing I’ve ever done.”

“Excuse it, please. Force of habit.” Below them, one of the knights sustained a deep wound; blood flowed. Merlin turned away from the sight. “But then you wouldn’t want me to slip and call you Nimue in front of anyone else, would you? You’re my apprentice-my male apprentice-for a good reason. For several, in fact.”

“I went along with this because I wanted to, Merlin. Are you saying I should never have let you talk me into it?”

“It wasn’t difficult. You weren’t exactly reluctant.”

Merlin turned his back and made himself watch the spar-ring knights again. “I don’t know how they do it. I didn’t have that much energy, or that much competitiveness, even when I was young. The knight who was injured will be up here soon, expecting me to treat his wound.”

“You’re the most competitive man at court, Merlin. It just doesn’t express itself physically, that’s all.”

“I am no such thing.”

“You are and you know it. You never stop. Doing everything you can to counter ignorance and superstition. Chipping away at foolishness and wasted effort. Trying your level best to turn Camelot into a court worthy of modern Europe instead of the Bronze Age backwater it is.”

He turned to face her. “You know perfectly well why I want you disguised as Colin. Morgan and the women of her court would be relentless if they knew you’d abandoned them and their assorted gods and goddesses to study with a champion of reason.”

“I can handle my dear cousin Morgan le Fay.”

“Do you know how many of the corpses in the cemetery thought that? She’s vicious when she thinks she’s been crossed. She is named for the death goddess, after all.”

“You don’t fool me, Merlin. You want me to pretend to be a boy for your own reasons.”

“Don’t be preposterous.” He pulled a wooden stool to himself and sat down.

“Merlin the Wise Man. With a carefully calculated image: pure, devoted to reason, unsullied by anything as base as emotion. Or lust.” She smiled and went back to her stool. Another raven flew into the room and landed at the edge of the table not far from her; she stroked its head. “You don’t want people to think you might be in love with a woman thirty years younger than yourself. Or even just sleeping with her.”

“For the excellent reason that I am not.”

She hopped up onto the window ledge. “Besides, I think having me pretend to be someone I’m not gives you a kind of vicarious pleasure. I’m a constant reminder that the others at court aren’t as clever as you.”

“I don’t have that kind of ego.”

“You’re a courtier, exactly like the rest of them. You do.” She grinned. “Besides, I have my own personal reasons for wanting to hide.”

He raised an eyebrow. “What would those be?”

“Never mind.” She stretched and yawned. “You’ve been giving me too much homework. How long do you think we can get away with this, anyway?”

“As long as we need to and want to, I imagine. It’s been more than six months.”

Before she could respond, there was a loud knock at the door, it flew open and King Arthur strode in. Arthur, tall, athletic, virile, broad-shouldered. He had bright reddish-yellow hair; some people called him the Sun King, which seemed to fit. Middle age was creeping up on him; he was not quite as fit as he’d been in his youth. But he was beaming and alive with energy. “Merlin, we’ve found it!”

Merlin and Nimue jumped to their feet. Nimue bowed. “Your Majesty.”

Arthur seemed surprised to see him there. “Oh, hello, Colin. How are your lessons coming?”

“Just fine, Your Majesty.”

“It’s such a pity you’re a scholar. You’ve got a good strong frame. The best build of any young man in Camelot. You could make a fine knight.”

She glanced at Merlin from the corner of her eye. “Horses make me nervous.”

“Oh.” Arthur seemed uncertain whether Colin was serious. “But you’d get used to them, surely.”

“I-”

“Arthur.” Merlin spoke up firmly. “As happy as I am at your ambition for my apprentice, I can’t help wondering what brings you up here.”

Arthur stopped short. “It’s what I said.”

“All you said was that we’ve found it. Who are ‘we,’ and what exactly is ‘it’?”

Arthur looked from Merlin to Colin and back. “Why, the stone of course.”

“Stone? What stone? What the devil are you talking about?”

Arthur sat down, rested his back against the wall and put a leg up on the table. “The stone. The Stone of Bran. You’ve heard me talk about it often enough. You still let those damned birds in here?”

“Be careful of those scrolls, will you? They’re not replaceable. ”

Arthur grinned. “I’m the king. I can replace anything I want.”

“Not those.”

“Anything.” He said it firmly. “If we can’t find them here, then somewhere else. Rome, Alexandria, Constantinople, someplace. I’m the richest man in England, remember?”

“Yes, you have enough plunder to buy what you want- if it exists. But Arthur, these books are precious. Look-this is a manuscript of Sophocles in his own hand. And this-an original Plotinus, an unknown essay on reason. There may not be any other copies in the world.”

“You told me the Stone of Bran didn’t exist, too. It does. We have it.”

Merlin stepped to the table and carefully rolled up his manuscripts. The raven on his left shoulder clambered across his back to the right one. “There is,” he said emphatically, “no such thing. For the excellent reason that there is no such being as the god Bran.”

“Don’t blaspheme the gods, Merlin. They have a way of getting their revenge.”

“Arthur, what is this stone? I mean, who found it and where?”

Arthur smiled a satisfied smile and pretended to examine his fingernails. “Percival found it. In Wales.”

“In Wales?” Merlin laughed. “What is it made of, then? Mud and onions?”