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

by Donna Hosie

  I tried so hard to be brave. Even though Bedivere was unconscious, I wanted to be ready for when he woke up. He needed to see me being strong and hopeful.

  But I couldn’t stop the spasms of grief, guilt and hate that spewed out of me as I sat with his right hand, his only hand, clasped in mine. Why had I asked him to come with me? What was it to me if Mordred escaped? It wasn’t my problem. I should never have gone tearing off after Merlin like that. I had panicked because of my connection to Mordred through the oath I had sworn, and Bedivere had only gone to the dungeons because he sensed that panic within me.

  This is your fault, I thought to Gwenddydd. You were the one that told me Mordred was escaping and that he had help. If you hadn’t said anything, none of this would have happened.

  Don’t blame me. And do not be so naive. Think. Sir Mordred was already out of his dungeon when Sir Bedivere and Sir Gareth reached him. The Lady of the Lake took her chance because she has an ally – willing or otherwise – who was helping Sir Mordred escape. That is the person you direct your anger towards. Not me.

  It was Slurpy, that bloody bitch Morgana, I thought. I bet she went down to the dungeons to take Mordred’s dark magic from him.

  Do not be so hasty to deal out accusations. Many an innocent has gone to their death on the false accusation of another. Think. There are others. Now think.

  Lady Fleur and her brother, Rupert, I thought. They would have wanted revenge on Bedivere, despite what Little Miss Swishy Hips said to the contrary.

  Good. Now be alert and continue to think. Gather allies around you, Natasha. The final fight is coming. You will avenge Patrick and Bedivere, and I will have my revenge. Use the grief and hate to your advantage. The guilt you must leave behind. It will make you weak – it will make us weak.

  “There is a fire inside of you, Natasha, Lady Knight of the Round Table. I see my sister has finally awakened your true spirit.”

  Merlin was standing in a corner of the room. He must have appeared by magic because I hadn’t heard the door open.

  “Why didn’t I see this was going to happen?” I asked, stroking Bedivere’s flushed cheek. “I see and hear visions and voices all of the time. Why didn’t I see this, Merlin?”

  “You cannot be a watcher for all things, child,” replied Merlin. “Some events in time are already written in the fates, and others are just a chance. I fear this was one such occurrence. Yet I still see Sir Bedivere in your future.”

  Bedivere was moaning. A bronze shallow bowl had been left on a stool, next to the bed. It was filled with water. I took a piece of clean cloth from a pile at the end of the bed, soaked it and dabbed his forehead. I was too scared to touch his arm, and not just because I was afraid of hurting him.

  “Have other things changed, Merlin?”

  “Constantly, Natasha, Lady Knight of the Round Table.”

  “So when you said you didn’t see Arthur in my future, that we were destined to be parted, has that changed too?”

  I turned around and stared at Merlin. His face was weathered, like a wooden carving stripped and battered by the elements.

  “No, Natasha, Lady Knight of the Round Table. That has not, and will not, change.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Wishful Thinking

  Gareth and I never left Bedivere’s side. While I tried to be proactive, learning all I could from Taliesin and Guinevere - however gross - about medieval healing, the effect that Bedivere’s injury had on Gareth was startling. The knight, who had always been so plump-faced and gentle, was becoming a shadow. Already gaunt from the torture inflicted by Mordred, Gareth was fading before our eyes. A light had been blown out from inside. His skin was mottled with red thread veins; his eyes were bloodshot. I never saw him sleep. I barely saw him eat. After seven nights, Guinevere and I found ourselves caring for two knights, not just one.

  “You must take something - anything,” protested Guinevere, as Gareth once again pushed away a bowl of stew. “You are not helping Sir Bedivere by wasting away to skin and bone by his side.”

  “I will eat once Sir Mordred is dead.”

  That was Gareth’s standard reply for everything. Even Tristram, Talan and David couldn’t convince him to leave Bedivere.

  Bedivere was a fighter, and I drew strength from his courage. Merlin had seen Bedivere in my future, and I held on to that vision. We had been through too much together. He wasn’t going to die and leave me. He promised he would never leave me.

  Yet you refuse to accept Merlin’s vision of a future without Arthur?

  In the end it was Gareth’s surviving brothers, Agravaine and Gawain, who took matters into their own hands. They ended up dragging Gareth outside, where they dunked him in a water trough - to wake him from his comatose state, as much as wash him. He protested loudly that he didn’t want to leave, but he was so weak, he couldn’t fight them off.

  Agravaine was different in appearance to Gareth and Gawain. The younger brothers had a thick mop of mud brown hair and hazel eyes. Agravaine, on the other hand, was very tall, taller than both Bedivere and Arthur, who were around six feet in height. Agravaine didn’t have Bedivere’s bulk; he was wiry. He also had a slight limp, and because his legs were so long, it made him look uncoordinated. He had a square patch of grey hair, the size of a post-it note, which made his head look as if it had been hit with a wet paint brush. His Scottish accent was far more pronounced than Gareth’s and Gawain’s, both of whom sounded more English than north of the border. You would never have thought they were related, let alone brothers.

  Bedivere stirred at the commotion as Gareth was dragged out. I saw him grimace as he tried to raise his left arm. Bedivere was instinctively grasping for my hand. He kept forgetting he didn’t have one anymore, and it was little things like that - rather than the raging fever and bloodied bandages - that upset me the most.

  “Sir Bedivere should be encouraged to rise from his bed today,” said Taliesin, walking into the room. He had a small bowl of squirming maggots in his hand. My guts heaved violently. I had promised to stay with Bedivere through all of his treatments, but this was the one that tested my bravery the most.

  “I would...like that,” replied Bedivere weakly. Guinevere and I grabbed him under his arms and pulled him up into a sitting position. He was still deathly pale, and the skin around his collarbone was sunken, but his eyes had more colour, and that was a good sign.

  “You do not...have to watch, my love,” he said, as Taliesin and Guinevere started to carefully unwrap the blood-stained bandages from his left arm.

  “It’s just the maggots I don’t like,” I replied. “I can cope with everything else.”

  “Then I give thanks...that they do not...have wings.” Bedivere gave me his almost-optimistic smile.

  Tears welled up. I looked at Taliesin, and saw tears were leaking from his enormous eyes as well.

  “I think that’s the first time you’ve ever made a joke,” I sobbed. “Now give me those maggots. Show me what I have to do, Taliesin.”

  Scores of revolting maggots had already been sealed into Bedivere’s wound with gauzy material. Taliesin showed me how to remove the old ones and wrap the fresh ones in. It was like being in a horror movie, as blackened bits of skin and oozing puss tore away from what was left of Bedivere’s left forearm.

  “They won’t eat their way into his skin, will they?” I kept thinking of the urban myths that spread through the schools I had been to. Most involved creepy-crawlies laying eggs in people’s ears, which then tunnelled through into the brain and burst out through the eyeballs. They were the kind of stories told by idiot jocks to scare the girls in order to get into their pants.

  I’m not gullible, but I wanted to be sure.

  “They eat only dead tissue, Lady Natasha,” replied Taliesin. “Their little bodies then kill the infection within, and what comes out helps break down more dead tissue. They are truly wondrous little healers.”

  I really could have done with an appearance by Gwenddydd at
this point, to take my mind away from the image of maggot crap, but ever since Bedivere’s injury, she had become docile.

  “Does it hurt?” I asked Bedivere. “I can get you more painkillers.”

  “I have suffered worse, my love.”

  I doubted that.

  The sharp noise of trumpets made all of us jump. Taliesin cursed, and then apologised as maggots rained onto the floor like engorged pieces of rice. Even Guinevere squealed, and her nerves were better than mine.

  “I’m sorry,” panted Arthur, running into the room. “I keep telling them not to do that.”

  He bent down and kissed me on the head. Then he realised what he had done and ruffled my hair instead.

  “Pack it in, Arthur.”

  “Just don’t want you thinking I like you, that’s all.”

  “I would shut up if I were you. I am armed with maggots and leeches.”

  “You’re onto the leeching already?” asked Arthur. “That’s great news.”

  We looked at each other and shook our heads. Only in this world would we ever have used a sentence like that.

  “You seem in a happier mood,” I said, although I wasn’t looking at my brother; I was watching Bedivere to make sure that the leeches, which Taliesin had promised me had pain relief properties, weren’t actually eating him alive.

  “Things are okay, I guess,” replied Arthur.

  The last week had seen a definite downturn in Arthur’s relationship with Slurpy. He had been so mad after she slapped me that they were sleeping in separate rooms. She was refusing to let him anywhere near Mila, as punishment for taking my side. I was torn between wanting to kill her, and just wanting her out of our lives for good. I hadn’t confronted her about whether she had let Mordred out. The witch would lie regardless, and right now, all my energy had to go into getting Bedivere well.

  But I would find out the truth eventually, and God help her when I did.

  During our long hours caring for Bedivere, I had finally plucked up the courage to tell Guinevere about what had happened with Byron in the wood. She had not reacted in the way I expected. I had thought – hoped – that Guinevere would go straight to Slurpy and have it out with her. But Guinevere had remained very quiet.

  “She would not have known that my brother was ailing, and had been for many months.”

  “But she absorbed the Gorian magic from him, right in front of me, Guinevere.”

  “Lady Samantha is graced with the dark arts, Lady Natasha. I overheard Sir Tristram say that a rumour was abound during the last harvest that she had gone through the Gorian rebirthing ceremony, and returned as Lady Morgana. Some even refer to her by that name in secret. She may have bewitched the king to make him love her all the more, but she did not kill my brother, and I will not accuse the lover of the king, the mother of the heir, of such an act until I have veritable reason to believe it.”

  I couldn’t argue with Guinevere, and so we stayed out of Slurpy Morgana’s way. But while Gwenddydd silently plotted to remove Nimue from this world, I started to plot to remove Slurpy, once and for all.

  Once the leeching was done, and Bedivere’s cauterised arm was wrapped in fresh bandages, Guinevere and I left him to sleep and went for some fresh air, leaving Lucan and Talan in the stuffy healing room. Arthur had taken one look at the maggots and had faked an important meeting to attend. The wuss was still running when I caught sight of him out of an upstairs window.

  “His Grace, the Duke of Lindsey, has still not sent word of his intention to pay Camelot a visit, I assume?” asked Guinevere, as we walked out in the warm spring sunshine.

  “He won’t. Bedivere’s father knows Arthur will beat the crap out of him if he so much as sets foot near Camelot,” I replied.

  “Good, for the man is a monster.”

  “I don’t know how Gwenddydd can bear to relive in my head what she went through. I can’t think of a worse way to die than burning.”

  Guinevere now knew about the voice in my head. It hadn’t bothered her at all. In fact, it seemed to answer a lot of the questions she had about me.

  “Is the sister of Merlin still with you? You have not mentioned her much in passing these last days. I was praying her torment of your mind had ended.”

  “Gwenddydd will be in my head until we get revenge on Nimue, but you’re right, she has been really quiet lately. It worries me, actually. I keep asking her if she’s still there.”

  “You are accepting her?”

  “No,” I replied quickly. “It’s just she’s been there ever since I could remember. For a long time she was just nasty to me, saying things I knew were right, but didn’t want to hear. Of course, I didn’t know it was her, I thought it was me. I do want her to go – to find peace if she can – but I wonder how it will change me.”

  There was a stone well in the centre of the courtyard. Several empty wooden buckets were lined up alongside it. Fluffy green moss covered the stones.

  “In my land, people throw coins into wells and make a wish,” I said, propping my elbows onto the stone and gazing down into the black depths.

  “Then let us both make a wish,” replied Guinevere, and she skipped over to a red-cloaked knight who was saddling up a grey horse.

  Seconds later she returned with two uneven circular coins, that looked as if they had been hit repeatedly with a heavy object. They were silver. One side showed a flying dragon, the opposite side had an image of a man in a crown. It looked like it had been drawn by a three-year-old.

  “That isn’t supposed to be Arthur, is it?”

  “It is more akin to Merlin,” said Guinevere, laughing. “So, show me, Lady Natasha. How do we wish?”

  “Just throw it in, close your eyes and say the wish in your head.”

  “I am not allowed to share?”

  I shook my head. “It won’t come true if you tell.”

  “Am I allowed more than one wish?”

  “It all depends on how much money you can scrounge from the knights.”

  “Oooh,” replied Guinevere, and with a flick of her long blonde hair, she was gone.

  I liked her so much. She was an incurable flirt, but she didn’t have a nasty bone in her body. Guinevere was smart and brave. There wouldn’t have been many people who would have walked through a dark forest alone, as she had done when we were trying to get back to the travelling court.

  She will make a great queen.

  What have you been doing? I thought. You’ve been awfully quiet.

  Waiting. Biding my time.

  So is Guinevere going to be queen? Are you seeing into the future when you say that? Will she and my brother end up together, like the legends?

  Life is not a book of fairy tales. It is cruel and hard.

  Gwenddydd was interrupted by Guinevere, who had returned with a jangling velvet purse. She opened the drawstring, pulled out several coins, and dropped them into the well, as she scrunched up her face and made her silent wishes.

  “Now you, Lady Natasha.”

  I let the silver coin slip through my fingers, and watched it turn in flight as it disappeared into the bottom of the well. I didn’t hear it land. I could have been like the vacuous Miss World contestants and wished for world peace, or even peace in Logres. I could have wished for thinner thighs or blonder hair. I could have wished for Bedivere to get better, or for Slurpy to disappear off the face of the planet.

  Instead, I went for something simpler. Something selfish. I just want to be happy, I thought.

  “What did you wish for?” asked Guinevere, the second I opened my eyes.

  “I can’t tell you. It won’t come true otherwise.”

  “Would you like to know what I wished for?”

  “Did it involve boys?”

  Guinevere laughed. “Of course,” she replied. “But I also asked for...”

  I slapped my hand across her mouth. “Don’t tell me.”

  She rolled her eyes, and I removed my hand. I immediately felt bad because I hadn’t washed them a
fter helping with Bedivere, and they were still covered in maggot mucus.

  “I’m going back to see to Bedivere,” I said. “You should stay out here, though. It’s a gorgeous day.”

  But Guinevere wasn’t paying attention to me anymore. Her eyes were fixed on something behind me. I turned, and saw Lady Fleur gliding towards us. The woman was eternally soundless, like a ghost. She was wearing a long silver dress with thin spaghetti straps. Her arms were covered in a chiffon bolero edged in tiny crystals.

  She had a nerve coming to talk to me. It was well known throughout the court that Lady Fleur and her brother were now criticizing Bedivere, wondering aloud who would replace him as a Knight of the Round Table.

  “Yes?” asked Guinevere curtly, as Lady Fleur drew level with us.

  Lady Fleur dipped into an elegant curtsey. I could see several of the knights in the courtyard eyeing her up. Boys. They could see no further than a pretty face.

  “Lady Natasha, Lady Guinevere, how is Sir Bedivere today?” enquired Lady Fleur.

  “Getting better and stronger every day,” I replied.

  “That is glorious news. So, has the king decided yet on a replacement?”

  “Bedivere isn’t being replaced,” I replied through gritted teeth. “He is, and always will be, a Knight of the Round Table.”

  Lady Fleur gave the impression of being abashed. She lowered her eyes and dipped her head. I wasn’t fooled, and neither was Guinevere, who was now making the noise of a sleeping dragon.

  “I share your distress, Lady Natasha,” said Lady Fleur. “It is a grievous blow indeed for Sir Bedivere to have lost his sword hand. Forgive my impertinence. You must have time to grieve.”

  She curtsied again, and floated away as quickly as she had arrived.

  “Devious harlot,” hissed Guinevere; she had her hands clenched into fists. “She’ll be grieving for her beautiful face if she dares to speak of Sir Bedivere in such a way again.” She quickly turned to me. “The king will not replace Sir Bedivere, will he?”

  “Absolutely not,” I replied, but a queasy feeling was starting to churn in my stomach: a gnawing sensation, like I had gone without food for too long. I probably had. I couldn’t remember the last time I had eaten.