The Undead Queen of Camelot

by M. L. Bullock

  Can’t you even tell the truth to yourself, Guinevere? Call him by his true name.

  Elaine’s accusing voice filled my ears. I admit I had been surprised to discover that Lancelot’s dead wife haunted him not only at the St. James Museum, the place that sheltered his statue, but at his home as well. I ignored her, but I could see Abigail rubbing her arms as if she felt a chill. Yes, she sensed her too. Abigail Lightfoot was an intelligent, intuitive human.

  Not a good thing, Guinevere. Not good at all. You should send her away for good. For her own sake.

  That seemed a practical bit of reasoning, but then again, when had Elaine ever wanted to help me? She hated me, long before she had reason to. I felt her displeasure as I pushed her out of my thoughts.

  “Let me gather my things, Jane, and I will get out of your hair. I would like to take the Lanier book with me if you don’t mind. I am sure I can decipher the script. I will bring it back when I return, and no harm will come to it.” Strange that she would think I would worry about such a thing. These books were not mine but belonged to John Faraday. I owned nothing at all except a few pieces of modern clothing, all of which I hated. Of all the things in this modern world, I hated the clothing the most.

  “I think that would be wise, Abigail. Please take what you like. I am sure John would not mind.”

  She thanked me and then asked, “Have you heard from him? Will he be back soon?”

  “He did not say when he would return, Abigail. I am sorry.”

  Once again, Lancelot, you go about breaking the hearts of all the ladies.

  I suddenly felt very sorry for her. As strange as it seemed, at least to her own mind, she loved John Faraday. Loved him in a way that she deemed unorthodox. I did not judge her. I was much older than she, and I once loved Lancelot too.

  Abigail gathered her papers and shoved them back in her leather satchel. She also put the book, her latest discovery, in the bag and walked to the door. Her sadness was palpable, and she acted as if she wanted to ask something else, but she did not. I wondered why she was experiencing this surge of emotion. Was I so disconnected from human emotion that I no longer understood how feelings worked?

  You are leanan shee, my queen.

  The memory of Nimue’s revelation came back to me as if I were experiencing the moment for the first time. It stung me fresh and horribly. I watched Abigail drive away in her powder blue compact car, and I closed the door behind her. I went back upstairs and finished shoving the heavy armoire in front of the window.

  It would block out the sunlight completely, so Nimue would be safe in here. The other windows were heavily curtained. To live in such an antiquated time capsule, Lancelot. You should have enjoyed this life, not spent it looking behind you. Not everyone gets a second chance.

  Naturally, my mind went to Arthur. I wondered how he fared, how he found his kingdom. Did the Well of Arches still hold the sweetest water in Camelot? Were the yellow and white roses, the ones grown by Lady Godfrey’s own hand, still growing on the hillside that led to the Spring Cottage? What enchantment kept Camelot open for us, for Arthur? How was it that he could go back there?

  “You were right to leave that day. That world is not for us, Guinevere. Not like this.”

  Nimue stood in the hallway, just outside the door. How was that possible? Nobody crept up on me, at least no human. But Nimue was not human anymore. And I was to blame for that.

  She sniffed the air briefly and whispered, “We are not alone, are we?” As she spoke, Elaine sailed through the room, the hood of her blue cloak covering her face as she wailed and then vanished into the far wall.

  “No,” I answered. “But she is harmless. I assume you recognize her?”

  “Elaine.”

  I offered no further explanation, and neither did the enchantress ask for one. But what she did say shocked me.

  “My queen, I must know the truth.”

  “What truth is that, Nimue?”

  She approached me cautiously but with a certain determination. “The sword, Excalibur, it remains with Arthur?”

  “It does, Nimue. I have not seen it since that day. Tell me, why have you called me after all this time?”

  “Because I did something, something I now regret.” She walked to the armoire and rubbed the wood absently; it was a very human movement. Ah, but she was much more human than I, which proved my theory that taking lives destroyed all traces of the soul’s humanity. “I made offerings to the Lady of the Lake, and I saw her in the depths.”

  “Vivian? Why?”

  “Because I wanted to die, my queen, and I cannot. I drink poisons, but death does not take me. I have pierced my own heart, and I live still.”

  Her answer angered me, though I had no reason and no right to feel aught against her. “Is that why you came here? Are you hoping that I will do what Vivian would not?”

  “Oh, you will kill me one day, my queen. I know this now.” Her eyes widened with surprise, and I heard Elaine moaning in another part of the house. “Yes, you will finish what you started, Guinevere.”

  I reached out to her with my mind so she could not only hear my thoughts but also feel my emotions. Nimue, you must know that I am deeply sorry. I regret few things these days, but you—I will always regret what I have done to you. Of all people, I would never wish you harm.

  “But you did me harm, my queen. You did more than harm—you killed me but not well enough. You stole my death from me.”

  Her savageness surprised me. I did not shrink from her when she scratched my face; a horrible sob erupted from her throat. I waited for her to continue to assault me, but she did not.

  “If I could change that, I would. I am sorry, Nimue.”

  She rained no other blows down on me although I wanted her to. Instead, she walked to the door and collapsed on the floor, propping herself weakly against the wall. I could feel her despair and hunger like a heavy blanket. Oh, she was hungry.

  “You need blood, Nimue. Taking blood will push all this away. Hunger makes us mad, and you know this.”

  “Thalia never denied herself blood, and she was certainly mad, so I do not believe you.”

  “She was never human, Nimue.”

  “I am not human anymore, Guinevere. Neither are you.”

  Ignoring my own hunger, I sat beside her on the dusty carpet. “You asked about the sword, Nimue. Why?”

  “Vivian has not forgotten it.”

  “Oh,” I answered her. “I did not expect that she would, but it is in the king’s hands now. There is nothing she can do.” Nimue said nothing else about it. We sat in the darkness for a long time, neither of us speaking. “We cannot lead Vivian to Camelot. If she knew how to get there, she would go, and she would take the sword. How she ever lost her way is beyond my understanding.”

  “I know,” she whispered. “I do not want that. I would never want to hurt Arthur.”

  “Neither would I, Nimue. That is why I stay away. I want nothing more than to go to Arthur, to be by his side, but not like this. I am Lady Death now, not the High Queen. I cannot go.”

  Nimue laid her head in my lap, just as I used to lay mine in hers those first days when the shee curse coursed through my veins. I comforted her as best I could, stroking her hair for hours. We did not talk much that first night. A few minutes before dawn, I helped her to the four-poster bed. And as she lay on her side and curled into a tight ball, I kissed her cheek. I closed the door behind me and flew down two flights of stairs to my own room. It would have been better to ensconce Nimue in my own kistvaen, but I could not stand that level of intimacy. Her near presence was enough to send me into a dreamless sleep.

  Chapter Three—Arthur Pendragon

  I stood with Gareth outside the Hall of the Round Table. “Who let him into the chamber? This is a sacred place, Gareth. You know this.” I rubbed at my beard. I was at a loss as to how this had come about. No one had been allowed in here. Even before my return to Camelot, the
residents of the castle treated this hallowed room as just that—holy ground. It had been my wish to protect Lancelot from the memory of this place, but now here he sat, collapsed in a heap in the Chair Perilous. The last person to have held the right to sit in the sacred chair had been his own son, the gallant and courageous Galahad, one of only three knights to have seen the Holy Grail and the only one to have touched it.

  “The tournament, my king. It has been a great distraction for the youth. They think of nothing but running up and down the thoroughfare. Like all young men, they hope to impress their king, as well as any ladies that happen to be watching.” I could think of nothing to say as I watched Lancelot lean forward, stretch out his arms and sob. “Marcus was supposed to keep watch this morning, but clearly he has failed to obey me.” Gareth shook his head, his ragged tunic evidence of his own participation in the most recent tournament. “I own the blame, my king.”

  I sighed as I clapped my hand on his shoulder. I’d been too hard on my friend. “There is no blame to assign, Gareth. I spoke hastily. Lancelot has every right to step into this hall, and I did not mean to suggest that you are his caregiver. I suppose we cannot keep the doors locked forever. If we are to truly restore Camelot, if we are to bring it back to its former glory, then we must keep the doors of the hall closed. King Leodegrance would not wish for us to abandon his gift. Nor would Queen Guinevere.”

  “I cannot think that they would.” As always, Gareth avoided direct mention of the queen, my wife. If he was of the mind that I should marry again, that I should set my wife aside since she refused to return to Camelot, he would not say so openly. Although he bore no love for the queen, he loved me enough to know that I loved her still. He held the Old Grudge, but I had forgiven Lancelot and Guinevere. How could they have known that I lived? They’d sought comfort in one another’s arms, but it had been a momentary thing. The Old Grudge meant nothing in the grand scheme of things. How could I explain to Gareth about the Otherworld and the horrible thing that Guinevere had become? Time moved so differently in this reality. So many things were different.

  “I must ask, Arthur, and forgive me if I am speaking beyond what I should…”

  “Yes?” I asked impatiently. Lancelot wept like a child in the darkened hall. I needed to go inside to him and provide whatever comfort I could.

  “Are you sure this is truly our Lance? I see some resemblance of him, of course, but he is different in so many ways. He cannot lift a sword without harming himself. He recognizes no one; it is as if his mind has been washed of everything. He wanders the halls at night crying. I do not blame him for his tears, but I do not believe…I mean, I find it difficult to believe that this man is truly Lancelot of the Lake.”

  I could not hide my disappointment. I scowled at him and said, “Have patience, Sir Gareth. Lancelot has endured much. He will heal in time.”

  “There have been many charlatans come into the kingdom during your absence, my king. Many were skilled in deception. Others also claimed to be Lancelot of the Lake.”

  I patted his shoulder again. “If he is a charlatan, so am I. Listen to him, Gareth. You know this is Lancelot, but the loss is too great for him to fathom. Grief bestows cruel gifts to some, and this pain is too great for him to bear alone. His sons and Elaine…he has nothing.” I could not hide the sorrow in my voice, nor did I want to. To think my foolish quest was to blame for Galahad’s death and also the deaths of Bors and Perceval and so many others. Their faces crowded my mind as I stared at the empty table.

  Ah, now they are ghosts haunting the Hall of the Round Table.

  “What of your own loss? Alwen, Lochlon…” He flinched at my expression. “I am sorry, Arthur. I know that it is Sir Lancelot, but he is so very different.”

  “He will be himself soon enough. Give him time, Gareth.” With that, he left me alone to contemplate how to ease my friend’s suffering.

  Lancelot heard me approach and lifted his head to wipe his face with his sleeve. Gareth was right, of course. This was not the Lancelot that Camelot yearned for, but they would have to be patient, as I was patient. I loved my friend beyond words. How could I do anything else but comfort him? “I know you miss Galahad, my old friend. He was a shining star, too bright for this world.”

  “But I do not miss him, Arthur. I do not remember him at all, and I know that I should. I am Lancelot but not fully. You seem to recall everything, but I recall nothing. I see only broken pieces of my life, imperfect memories. The only things I do remember, I should not.”

  His face reddened at his own revelation. Ah, so he loved Guinevere still? “Give it some time, my friend.”

  “We do not have time; you know that. I have lost so much of who I am. Maybe I should not be here. My time is over here, Arthur. I am John Faraday, a scholar, nothing more. I am not a help to you but yet another burden. Please, Arthur. Send me home. Let me go back.”

  I sat beside my friend unsure what to say. Even if I could send Lancelot back to that other world, I was not sure how to accomplish that. And there were no wise men or women left in the kingdom, not wise in the ways of magic. I did not tell him, but I had quietly revisited the mossy circle twice since my return. It had been months ago, but there was nothing there—no evidence of any portal, no doorway. On more than one occasion, I dreamed of returning to seek out Guinevere. The sword would lead the way, I thought, as it still hummed her name on occasion. But alas, she was beyond my reach. The sword could not or would not tear the veil between us. If Guinevere were ever to return to me, it would be of her own accord. And that would probably never happen. I was beginning to believe that Guinevere did not feel for me as I did for her. I dreamed of her red hair brushing against my cheek in the early morning hours. I could feel her warm breath and smell the green apples we used to share after our lovemaking. Do you ever dream of me, Guinevere? No. I could not focus on my own pain. All I could do was wait for her and believe that one day we would be reunited and that our love would continue to grow, whether in this life or the next, for I fully believed in such things now.

  But Lancelot needed me. Leading the mining crew had taught me a great many things. Some men needed tasks to accomplish to bolster their confidence, to polish their leadership skills. To help them see themselves as a leader. I had hoped that achievement would help Lancelot adjust to life here. There was much to do at Camelot. The bulwarks on the south side had to be fortified. The fields in the west were suffering under the sweltering heat—an irrigation plan needed to be designed. I hoped we would not have a repeat of the famine we experienced at the beginning of my reign. But none of these projects appealed to Lancelot. He longed for his books and artifacts and the modern world, a place where men like John Faraday excelled. Perhaps Gareth was right. This was no longer Lancelot of the Lake.

  No, that’s a foolish thought.

  All Lancelot needed was some help. Maybe someone else, someone skilled in the ways of magic. Merlin would be gone a very long time, according to him. I dreamed about him occasionally. Nimue remained with Guinevere. So who? Who could help Lancelot recover his memory? The idea of him losing his mind sickened me. But there was one who could help Lancelot remember and one who would want him to remember. I was not sure she could help, but what else could I do?

  My own mother, Queen Igraine, would not come to Camelot; she believed I was an imposter. I had written her two letters; the second one she ignored completely, but her reply to the first one surprised me. She excoriated me, clearly and completely denounced me. She wrote, “I saw my son, Arthur Pendragon, buried, and I will never forget that horrible day. How dare you pretend to be the son of the Dragon?”

  Then came the reports. Rumors, really. Surely they could only be rumors. Queen Igraine stirred up and gathered the chiefs in the North. Hence the need for the second letter. I warned her not to cause bloodshed and tried to plead a peaceable case, but she rebuffed all my attempts at reconciling. I eventually would have to go to her, to comfort her and assure her that ye
s, I had returned to her by some magic beyond me. Privately, of course. That would be the right thing to do, and then she would have to come to me for the good of the kingdom. I would think she would believe me, being that she was my mother and not unfamiliar with the power of magic. It was by magic that she became the wife of Uther Pendragon, but she must have forgotten that fact.

  No, she would not help Lancelot, nor would I ask. But there was one who would and should. The Lady of the Lake once loved my friend, probably more than any other soul. He was, after all, her son.

  “We will find help, Lance. I know what we must do. Come now. We must prepare to travel. It is only a day’s ride.”

  “Where are we going?” Lancelot rubbed the dampness from his eyes; his voice was fearful, and I hated the sound of it.

  “You will see. Go pack your bag, my friend. I will send Marcus to help you when he returns.”

  “No, don’t bother. I think I can manage that.”

  “We will leave first thing in the morning.”

  I left Lancelot in the Hall of the Round Table and went to set things in order. Yes, there were things that needed to be done, and it was risky leaving Camelot with Igraine rattling swords in the North, but this I must do.

  I must go to the Lady of the Lake.

  Chapter Four—Guinevere

  “Nimue, you must drink blood. You cannot allow yourself to weaken as you did before. We have many enemies, and I cannot deliver you from them all.” She said nothing, but I could see the hunger in her eyes. I knew it very well. “This man is an evildoer, I assure you. You did not kill him—your conscience is clear.” I reached for her hand to pull her closer, but she refused to budge. There were dark shadows under her eyes, and her skin had taken on a slightly gray color. I could see her hair was not as lustrous as before. Yes, she was clearly suffering from her blood fasting.