The Spirit of Nimue (The Return to Camelot #3)

by Donna Hosie

  The Spirit of Nimue

  Book Three in The Return to Camelot Trilogy

  Donna Hosie

  Acknowledgments

  For my mum and dad: Lorraine and Peter Molloy. I love you.

  Becoming an independently published author is very empowering, but any writer considering this route needs a small army behind them to help spread the word. So, here is my Arthurian Army of Awesomeness: Erna Brodocz, Miranda Vescio, Maria Dotson, Sue Barnowski, Kimberly Denz, Kim Schreiner, Anne Ehrenberger, Lily Prudhomme, Liesl Muller, Charlotte Archer, Connie House, Denise Dowd, Donna Magrum, Athena Stewart, Julie Horning, Madeleine Henderson, Donna K. Weaver, Di Suzuki, and Steve Whitcher. They shared the Merlin love, annoyed the heck out of their friends, and did it for no other reason than they are my friends. You all rock (like Fred and George, but that’s a different tale!)

  To Charlotte Evans, Peggy Russell and Kelly Bohrer Zemaitis – my Lady Knights of the Writing Table. Thank you, thank you, thank you. The three of you have made me a better writer. I am blessed to have friends like you who were prepared to spend your free time, not only reading through this manuscript first, but also going back over the previous two books to make sure everything tied up neatly. I’m going to miss getting those emails that started “ZOMG…!”

  I mentioned in the acknowledgements for Searching for Arthur just some of the writers who inspired this trilogy. A huge amount of research over three years went into writing these books, and while I played with the stories to suit my own retelling of the legend of King Arthur, I tried to stay true to the culture of Camelot as much as possible. So I am indebted to those websites that provide resources for not only the legend of Logres, but also medieval life one thousand years ago. I would have been lost without Latin and Welsh translators, and I would also like to thank the organisers of the opening ceremony for the London 2012 Olympic Games who – clearly without knowing it – gave me the perfect visual for how to end this series!

  Thank you to everyone who has taken the time to review and star this trilogy on Amazon and Goodreads. Your support is truly humbling and sincerely appreciated.

  And finally, and most importantly, Sir Mike Weinstein of Bandersnatch. There are no words to describe how awesome you are, but please know there are many who agree with this sentiment. I would love to gift you back the time you have spent on this entire trilogy. THANK YOU!

  Chapters

  Time

  Arrows and Fire

  Quid Pro Quo

  The Runaways

  Lady Knights of the Round Table

  A Sister Returned

  Gwenddydd

  A Watery Grave

  Four Eyes

  Bedivere’s Loss

  Wishful Thinking

  The Knights’ Council

  Seven Days

  The Unknowable Quest

  Myths and Monsters and Magic

  Revenge and Respect

  The Monster of Albion

  Curse of the Blood Oath

  Excalibur’s Treachery

  The Pool of Sidus

  Byron’s Last Words

  Separate Ways

  The Heart of the Falls

  Worlds Collapse

  Time of Death

  A Queen for Camelot

  The Sadness of Sir Gareth

  Counting the Days

  A Strange Stranger

  Glastonbury Tor

  Chapter One

  Time

  My name is Natasha Amelia Roth. I was seventeen years old when this story started. A lot has happened since then. I have no idea how old I am now. Back in my old time – your time – I can buy beer, vote, and even marry with my parents’ permission if I wanted to. Which I totally don’t, not yet.

  But time hasn’t mattered since I fell into a hole and woke up the sleeping Knights of Camelot. They were waiting for Arthur. They had been waiting for a thousand years.

  Their king turned out to be my brother. The two of us travelled through time and death and darkness to Logres, a thousand years in the past. My brother was eighteen years old when this started. I have no idea how old he is now, either. Time lost its significance, its hold. Time was nothing when your heart and soul were trapped somewhere else where you couldn’t reach them.

  My heart belonged to me, but I shared it completely with Bedivere - in this time. The other knights, his friends, called him Sir Bedivere. They called me Lady Natasha – a Lady Knight of the Round Table. I liked that title because it made me feel special. And I was special. In this time.

  There was another Lady Knight of the Round Table: Guinevere, my friend. Not my best friend. That was Arthur, although I could never tell him.

  I would have loved to have seen Arthur and Guinevere hook up together, like in the myths and legends of the past, but there was someone else in this time - in every time - and no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t get rid of her.

  That person was my brother’s girlfriend: Slurpy Sammy. Known to all back in her time as Samantha Scholes-Morgan. Known to some in this time as Lady Morgana.

  But now there was another person in the picture: a baby. Conceived in Logres and born in Logres, yet she didn’t belong in this time. Mila was a baby of the future, born into the past.

  And Mila changed everything.

  Nobody would have believed me if I had told them about the blue fire at Mila’s fingertips, so I didn’t say a word. I just ran. I ran from the tent, ran past the huge red Ddraig that was sitting like a guard dog outside, and ran through the crowds of knights that were gathering to catch a glimpse of my brother’s new daughter.

  I didn’t know what I was running to; I only knew what I was running from.

  I was waiting for the voices to appear in my head. I had lived with the malevolence of my own inner voice for as long as I could remember, but ever since we had returned to Logres, more and more voices had started to appear. Most notably, the voice of Merlin: the sorcerer imprisoned by Nimue, the Lady of the Lake, a thousand years ago. I had helped him escape the enchantment, although I hadn’t realised it at the time.

  And he had manipulated time like it was cookie dough in his hands.

  So I continued to run. Voices carried on the wind, calling to me. But the voices weren’t in my head, and so I knew I could escape them. Nothing and no one can outrun me, regardless of time.

  The ground was vibrating beneath my feet. The darkness that had covered Logres had left the ground hard and taut like a drum skin. Knights on horseback were coming after me. Had my brother sent them? He didn’t need to. I would go back to the travelling court of Camelot in my own time. I wasn’t running away – just running.

  Fire at her fingertips. Only instead of the psycho Slurpy snapping her fingers, it was my brother’s baby. Somehow Mila had inherited her mother’s ability to raise the blue flame: a fire that had been used against me, to torture me. A blue flame that the druids of Gore had used to kill people.

  I started to slow down. Not because I was tired, but because I wanted to. Life was about choices and I made mine with care. Fresh air had already started to clear my head, and with no inner voice to mock me, I felt in control for once.

  Plenty of time for that to change.

  And there it was. The companion in my head.

  There was a sudden tug on my arm, and a sonorous snort sprayed something gross and sticky over my head. I was pulled skywards.

  “Did you truly believe I would not follow you?”

  I grinned sheepishly and kissed my Bedivere behind his ear. I knew that he would follow me. He would always follow me. Tucking my legs in against his, I wrapped my arms around his waist and leant forward. He was my home, r
egardless of time.

  “Arthur won’t miss us if we disappear for a while,” I suggested.

  “The king has given word that the camp is to make haste to Camelot. He believes Lady Samantha and Lady Mila will be better protected there.”

  “Better protected from what?”

  Would you like to choose from a white Ddraig, the druids from Gore, or even Bedivere’s father? There are probably a couple of Saxons still skulking around the place if you look hard enough.

  Okay, inner point taken. There were a million things ready and waiting to hurt any one of us in this time, but I knew that not one of the men or monsters my inner voice had come up with was the real reason Arthur was planning to leave.

  He was running from Nimue.

  She wanted my brother, and for a while he had trusted her. In the past he may have even loved her. Then Arthur chose me and my truth over the lies of Nimue, and she was banished. Merlin’s fire beat her away and cleared the land of the darkness that had infected everything.

  She was waiting though. Biding her time.

  “When is the court leaving?” I asked Bedivere. He had turned his horse around and it was trotting faithfully back to the camp. I had run quite a distance, which made me smile and feel inwardly smug. I was really good at running.

  “The procession has already begun,” replied Bedivere. “Outriders will mark the safest route for the king, and we will follow.”

  “I want to ride with you.”

  “I would not have it any other way.”

  In the distance I could see a single, snaking trail of horses and knights leaving the camp. It was heading across open ground, but would soon disappear into a dense forest. The temperature was dropping, but that wasn’t why I shivered. Bedivere felt it too. He dropped the reins from his left hand - his sword hand - and grabbed my fingers, which were pressed flat against his rock-hard stomach.

  “Why did you run, my love?”

  “Mila freaked me out.”

  “You are withholding the truth, Natasha.”

  “I’m not lying,” I replied defensively, even though he was right.

  “To evade the truth can be as grievous as stating a falsehood. I know that better than any man.”

  I knew he was referring to the time I had discovered that he had a fiancé called Lady Fleur. My knee had done most of the talking then, and not to his face.

  “You’ll think I’m mad.”

  “Do you really believe that?”

  “I saw blue flame coming from Mila’s fingers.”

  “So, she has inherited more than just her mother’s beautiful looks.”

  And just like that, without further explanation or anything, Bedivere took my word as truth. I started to relax as Bedivere pulled on the reins with his right hand, and steered us away from Arthur’s tent and the Ddraig. Instead, we headed towards a blacksmith’s forge, which was glowing red with heat, as two sweating men pounded broken swords back into shape.

  “Is it ready?” called Bedivere.

  One of the men looked up and nodded his head.

  “Aye, Sir Bedivere,” he replied in an Irish accent that was harsher than Talan’s. “The blade has been folded exactly to your wishes. For sure, a more beautiful sword you would be hard-pressed to find for a lady.”

  “A Lady Knight of the Round Table,” corrected Bedivere. We both jumped down from his horse and walked over to the forge.

  “Am I getting my own sword?”

  “Her name is Angharad, m’lady,” replied the blacksmith. “In the Welsh tongue, it means much loved.”

  His blackened stubby fingers reached out to a dirty piece of cloth. He threw it back and underneath, lying on a long black cushion, was a gleaming silver sword. Swirls had been stamped into the blade, and the hilt, which was banded with dark blue leather, ended in a disc which was stamped with the initials N and B.

  “It’s beautiful. Can I hold it?”

  “

  Angharad is yours, m’lady,” replied the blacksmith.

  I reached forward and let my fingers brush against the gleaming steel. It was freezing cold. Thinking it was probably the weight of a large hammer, I picked it up, with both hands clasped tightly around the hilt, and promptly made the blacksmith duck for his life as I swung it easily through the air.

  “It is not too heavy?” asked Bedivere.

  I spun around and he fell backwards onto the grass. The glinting blade missed Bedivere’s head by inches. Several people laughed.

  “It’s perfect,” I replied, and it was. The sword felt light and delicate in my hands. The other weapons I had used in this time had been heavy and crude, but this was beautiful. As it sliced through the air, it seemed to sing with a high-pitched whistle.

  “When did you ask them to make this for me?”

  Bedivere smiled, and it wasn’t the slightly-raised lips smile either. It was a smile to rival and then bitch-slap Arthur’s expensive-teeth grin. Bedivere looked so happy and content, and it made my stomach tickle.

  “Sir Gareth remarked that I had never gifted you jewellery, Natasha, but I knew this would befit you more.”

  Bedivere totally got me. I wasn’t the type of girl who liked to be dripping in bling. Diamond stud earrings were about all I could manage without fidgeting, and these days I only wore one of those because Bedivere had the other attached to his cloak.

  “I see I was correct,” he added knowingly. “For while I would be honoured to present you with the jewels of my family, I fear my banishment at my father’s word has now denied those to me, and ultimately to you. Yet I do not believe you will mourn their loss. A sword as beautiful as Angharad is more fitting for a Lady Knight of the Round Table.”

  “It is, and I love it, and I love you.”

  With the sword still in my right hand, I wrapped my arms around Bedivere’s neck and kissed him. His nose was cold and his stubble scraped across my chin, but his mouth was warm and he tasted like fruit.

  This was my true moment in time.

  Bedivere went back into Arthur’s tent, but I wanted to avoid Slurpy and Mila. So I wandered through the camp, trying to find something useful to do. I found Bedivere’s half-brother, Lucan, stripped to the waist. He was wrestling with another guy, who I assumed was a knight. He was also half-naked. These boys liked showing off their six-packs, although in Lucan’s case it was more of an eight-pack – not that I was looking.

  “My dear sister,” cried Lucan, standing up. He punched his opponent in the face and sent him sprawling. “Forgive my lack of attire. Milton, my shirt.”

  A young boy, with bright yellow hair and a mass of freckles, ran forward with a long white shirt, which stuck to the sweating Lucan as he tried to put it on. I laughed as Lucan and his servant tried for several minutes to extricate Lucan’s head through the correct hole, and not the ones meant for his arms. Eventually, they managed it.

  “Now I can receive my dear brother’s betrothed in a more fitting manner.” Lucan bent forward and kissed my hand.

  “I haven’t said I will marry Bedivere,” I replied quickly.

  “Yet you will.”

  “Who says?”

  “You are a maiden in love. Why would you not marry one of the greatest knights in Logres?” asked Lucan, and I had to laugh at the confused expression on his face. He looked like a puppy whose bowl of food had been taken away.

  “I may be in love, but I am a Lady Knight of the Round Table,” I replied, pulling out Angharad, “and I think marriage is for people who don’t have anything to talk about anymore, and so they decide to get married for the sake of having something to do.”

  “You are an intriguing maiden, Lady Natasha,” smiled Lucan, “and my poor brother has clearly lost his senses when he gifts you a sword instead of fine jewels.”

  “I think your brother knows me better than anybody on this earth, in this time or any other.”

  “Walk with me, dear sister, and before you protest, know that I shall call you my dear sister whether you are wedde
d to Sir Bedivere or not,” said Lucan, offering his arm.

  “I seem to remember that the last time we went for a walk, I ended up falling down some stairs,” I replied. “And then your father tried to burn me at the stake as a witch.”

  “It was the sorcerer’s work,” said Lucan grimly. “We can but hope that now Merlin is back in the king’s counsel, his trickery will no longer involve those with their name inked on the Round Table.”

  “But my name won’t be on the Round Table – will it?”

  “Once we are back in Camelot, we shall see,” replied Lucan.

  We had arrived at a shabby white tent, which was ripped and frayed. It was heavily guarded by at least ten armed knights, all wearing full body armour. Lucan pulled back the opening, and I walked through.

  In the centre was a large wooden block with chains draped around it. Sitting cross-legged on the hard ground, with manacles on his wrists and ankles, was a bloodied and beaten Mordred.

  “Come to gloat at my misfortune, Lady Natasha?” croaked Mordred through split lips. One of his eyes was so bruised it had swollen itself shut, and his shirt was hanging in red-streaked shreds.

  “I don’t gloat,” I replied, wincing at the sight of him, “but you deserve this. You attacked my brother. You and your druids have killed innocent people.”

  “Pah,” spat Mordred. His spit landed near Lucan’s feet and it contained more blood than saliva. “No one in this kingdom is innocent. There are merely shades of guilt.”

  “Why did you bring me here?” I asked Lucan. “I don’t want to see Mordred. I never want to see him again.”

  “I wanted to reassure you, Lady Natasha,” replied Lucan. “I wanted you to know that this traitor who dogs your footsteps will never hurt you again.”

  But Mordred started laughing.

  “Your chains will not bind me for long, Sir Lucan. This is my time. Arthur may have endured the mists of Avalon to return, but he will not see this through to the end. You have not seen what I have seen.”