'Caius Merlyn Britannicus,' he drawled. 'My people tell me you've been seeking me. How may I serve you?'
'Serve me by staying alive until I come for you,' I answered, and he laughed, his voice filled with what sounded like genuine amusement.
'I will! You may rest assured I have no plans to die. But why would you come for me?'
I simply lay and looked at him, seeing the misleading attractiveness I had always seen in him, the apparent lack of malice. 'Why?' I asked him then. 'Why did you set out to destroy my life?'
'Destroy ?' He laughed again, but when his laughter died away, there was perplexity stamped between his brows.
'Why would you think that I would waste my time destroying you? [...] Ah, Merlyn, you are already half-way dead. Fully alive, perhaps, in mental terms, but physically? No.' He shook his head. 'Your leprosy will write an end to you in Camulod.'
'It might,' I said, totally undismayed to hear him mention my deepest fear. 'But not before I chop the living heart out of your breast.[...] I'm coming for you, Ironhair, and I will find you.'
He smiled again, and began to fade from my sight, the light that revealed him to me dimming slowly. 'I have told you, Merlyn, you will not find me. Look to yourself, and to your charge, Arthur Pendragon. There is the one you should be grieving for and fretting over ... He is accursed ... much like you ...'
'I will not allow you to steal Richard's crown,' she said tautly. 'Understand that if you understand nothing else, John. As long as I have breath in my body, I will oppose you in this. As will the justiciars.'
'You think so?' he scoffed. 'They held fast today, but who knows what may happen on the morrow? They might well decide that England would be better served by a living king than by a dead one!'
'Richard is not dead.'
'How can you be so sure of that, Madame? Have you second sight? Or is this merely a doting mother's lapse into maudlin sentimentality?'
Beneath his savage sarcasm, she caught echoes of an emotion he would never acknowledge: a jealousy more bitter than gall. Bring us back incontrovertible proof of Richard's death,' she said, 'and then we will consider your claim to the throne.'
John's eyes showed sudden glints of green. 'You mean you would weigh my claim against Arthur's, do you not?'
'Richard named his nephew as his heir. I did not,' she said pointedly. 'Must I remind you that you are my son, flesh of my flesh? Why would I not want the kingship for you?'
'That is a question I've often asked myself.'
'If you'd have me say it, listen, then. I want you to be king. Not Arthur, you.'
He could not hide a flicker of surprise. 'You almost sound as if you mean that.'
'I do, John,' she said. 'I swear by all the saints that I do.'
For a moment, he hesitated and she thought she had him.
'But not whilst brother Richard lives?'
'No,' she said, very evenly, 'not whilst Richard lives.'
.
The King is dead, and I am well-disposed to follow him, for I loved him, and never more than this week lately gone and on the day of his fall. They have shed his blood, they have used his body more shamefully than any man's, let alone a King anointed with the Chrism. They have despoiled him of his life, his flesh, but his honour and his fame they cannot touch. This makes them angry. The wrath on their faces is like a mask hiding fear-sweat, for Death has nudged them, and the passing breeze of something greater ...
There are half a dozen of us, knights and yeomen, a few from distant shires whose tongue I cannot understand. Close beside me, standing patiently in this foul cell, are Master William Brecher and his son Thomas. Brave warriors both, despite their simple stock. I fought beside them in the battle and marked the honour of young Thomas. He is afraid now, but has himself in hand. We are to be executed for our treason. Outside I can hear them erecting the gallows, with steady knocking blows, and my own heart echoes each rap. The roll has been read, the indictment signed, and in great haste, for the Dragon would be on his way to London to take up the reins of the kingdom into his long pale hands. We are traitors. And the cognizance of our treason? We fought too well in the King's service. We bore too high the standard of Blanc Sanglier. His raison was ours. Loyaulte me lie.
