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

by Donna Hosie

  I needed to get back to Bedivere. Food and wishes could wait.

  “Go to him,” said Guinevere intuitively. “I want to find Sir Gareth. I am hoping that his brothers have not quartered him in their haste to get him bathed.”

  I ran back up through the castle corridors to the second floor. As I turned the corner, I found myself face to face with Slurpy. She was wearing dark brown suede pants and laced boots that went over her knees. Her white shirt had a thick black belt around the middle of it, which showed off her hourglass figure perfectly. You wouldn’t have thought she had only just given birth. Then again, I wouldn’t have put it past her to use magic in order to get a bit of liposuction on the cheap.

  Then I noticed that her hands were behind her back. I was always looking at her hands and her eyes. It was instinctive now.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “I don’t answer to you, freak.”

  She tried to push past me.

  “You had better not have been anywhere near Bedivere.”

  “Why would I care about your crippled boyfriend?” snapped Slurpy, although she wouldn’t look at my face, my eyes. “Now get the hell out of my way.”

  I snatched at her arm and twisted it around. Slurpy had clearly been stealing from the physicians’ stores, because she had three black drawstring bags, which were bulging at the seams with herbs and rolled up pieces of thin parchment, some of which were filled with an orange paste.

  “What are you doing with those?”

  “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

  “If I find out you were the one who let Mordred out...”

  Slurpy laughed in my face. I felt her spit land on my skin. Rage was boiling up inside of me. I had felt consumed by this hatred before, after we had found our way back to Wales and I believed I would never see Bedivere again.

  Slurpy had said she would go back to Logres to make Bedivere suffer.

  You don’t know it was her. Calm down.

  “It was you.” I pushed Slurpy in the chest.

  “Prove it.” She was smirking.

  “You freed Mordred during the feast. Admit it. This is all your fault.”

  Again and again I pushed her as she just laughed.

  “You think you’re so special, but you are nothing but a weirdo.”

  “I hate you.”

  “I haven’t even started yet...”

  But Slurpy suddenly stopped mocking and laughing. A look of fear and shock fell across her face. Everything started to run in slow motion. I didn’t understand what was happening at first, because her arms didn’t move from her sides.

  Slurpy was still clutching the stolen bags as she twisted and started to fall down the black stone stairs.

  Stairs I had just pushed her down.

  Chapter Twelve

  The Knights’ Council

  I reached out for her shirt. It tore at the seams, but it was enough to stop the momentum of gravity. Lunging forward, I grabbed Slurpy’s thick belt and pulled. Her knees buckled, and we both clattered down the first couple of steps, coming to a painful stop with our legs twisted around each other.

  “YOU TRIED TO KILL ME,” she screamed.

  “I didn’t mean...”

  “HELP ME, HELP ME...”

  “It was an accident,” I cried, as Slurpy kicked out at me. She clambered down the rest of the steps; her torn shirt exposed her pale skin and a tattoo, the shape of which I couldn’t make out.

  “GUARDS...”

  I could hear heavy footsteps pounding on the stone floor. Panicking, I remembered what Duke Corneus’ guards had done at the court of Lindsey. No one had believed me then – no one ever believed me.

  I had pushed Patrick into the water, and now I had pushed my brother’s girlfriend down the stairs. Arthur would believe Slurpy, especially with her shirt hanging in shreds.

  I had to run.

  At the end of the corridor, past Bedivere’s room, was a solitary black curtain. It was made of thick brocade, and was at least fifteen feet in length. It wasn’t covering a window, it was shielding a passage. It hid a set of narrow stairs that led directly out into the courtyard. Taliesin had shown it to me, as the healers used it when they wanted to pick plants by moonlight. Nervous of false accusations of witchcraft, the healers’ skills were used by the court, but not openly advertised.

  I started to run towards it, but as I approached Bedivere’s room, the door creaked open. Bedivere was out of bed. His left arm was wrapped in thick bandages, and he was wearing nothing on his body or feet.

  I ran into his room and slammed the door shut.

  “What are you doing? You need to get back into bed.”

  “I heard raised voices: yours and Lady Samantha’s. I was coming to your aid.”

  Holding on to his right arm, I tried to steer him back into bed, but he was stronger than he looked.

  “What has happened, Natasha? Your mouth is bleeding.”

  Slurpy’s boot had caught me in the face, but I didn’t care about my thick lip, because fresh blood was seeping through Bedivere’s clean bandages. His scarred face was lined with pain.

  “I could have killed her, Bedivere. I wanted to kill her. If Arthur asks me the truth, I can’t lie to him.”

  “Then allow me to speak the untruth to the king,” replied Bedivere.

  “No.”

  “My days as a knight are finished. I am no use to the king now, not any more. I will renounce my place at the Round Table and I will protect you.”

  “You can’t do that. You’re the greatest knight in Logres. Arthur would never...”

  But Bedivere cut across me. His eyes were sparkling like emeralds. Every word was costing him.

  “I have lost my sword hand, Natasha. I cannot serve. Help me live with honour as a man, even if I am worthless as a Knight of the Round Table.”

  The door flew open. Four guards dressed in black cloaks were standing in the corridor. They had long spears, held vertically. Bedivere did not give them a chance to say a word.

  “You will not touch the sister of the king,” he growled. “She has not left this room, nor my side.”

  “Lady Samantha...” one of them started to say.

  “TITCH! What the hell is going on?”

  Arthur pushed his way past the guards and stormed into the room. His blonde hair was congealed with sweat, and his freckled face was pink with blotches.

  “She has been with me, sire,” said Bedivere. “I request that you dismiss the guards at once.”

  “Sammy said...”

  “Lady Samantha and Natasha have quarrelled since the moment I first met them by the shores of the lake,” interrupted Bedivere. “Any misunderstanding between them will be twisted into something fresh; you know this is true, sire. Your understanding of them both is more knowledgeable than that of any man.”

  Bedivere’s flattery seemed to work, but the fact that I had let someone else lie to my brother in order to save my own ass was horrible. It wasn’t supposed to be like this.

  “You and Sammy exhaust me,” snapped Arthur, “and I’m sick of being in the middle of it. From now on, I don’t want to know.”

  “Arthur, while you are here, may I speak with you about another matter?” asked Bedivere.

  “Of course.”

  “Alas, it must be done in the Great Hall. I will need assistance to get there,” said Bedivere.

  “Don’t do this,” I begged. “Arthur doesn’t care.”

  “I don’t care about what?”

  “I cannot serve you, Arthur. Not any more.”

  “Rubbish,” replied Arthur.

  “My sword hand is gone. I can no longer protect the kingdom of Logres, or my king.”

  “But you can learn to fight with your other hand,” I said.

  “My love, please,” begged Bedivere. He was close to tears and I could feel his humiliation. It was burning all of us. “I am a hindrance to any knight that stands at my side now. A knight’s instincts are more than just learning t
o hold a blade. I will no longer be able to ride into battle and handle a sword. I am finished.”

  “We’ll find other things for you to do, Bedivere,” said Arthur, who had now clearly forgotten the reason why he had stormed into the room in the first place.

  “I can protect Natasha.”

  “This is preposterous,” roared Tristram. “I will not be a part of this.”

  A Knights’ Council had been called. The Great Hall was heaving with those who were knights - and those who wanted to be one - all jostling to have their voices heard.

  The Round Table looked alive. Golden ink had flooded the entire stone slab as every seat was taken. The carvings seemed to move in the torchlight as the lettering of names and images glistened.

  I had taken my seat next to Bedivere. His name was still there, entwined with mine, but the knight that sat at my side was silent. I rubbed his leg with my hand, and I felt him lean into me slightly, but he could not take his eyes off the unicorn that was carved into the stone in front of him. The waterfall below my name was flowing gold. It was mesmerising.

  Gareth was sitting in his seat, shaking his head. Tristram, Talan, David and Lucan were all loudly voicing their opinion that Bedivere was the best of them all, and they would not accept his replacement at the table and the court of Camelot.

  But to my disgust, there were plenty of men in arms standing around the hexagonal room that thought this was a great idea. They hid their ambition behind regret and sorrow for Bedivere, but if a seat at the Round Table was coming up for grabs, then they were going to take it, and they didn’t care who they trampled on in the process.

  Guinevere was sitting several seats away from me; her hands were clenched so tightly they had drained of blood. As the mob mentality of the knights grew louder and louder, she finally snapped. Her chair scraped back with a squeal that set my teeth on edge.

  “BE SILENT,” she yelled. “IS THIS HOW A KNIGHTS’ COUNCIL BEHAVES? LIKE COMMON RABBLE?”

  “Where is the king?” asked one knight: a red-faced man with a squashed nose that was more like a pig’s snout.

  “The king is here,” said an old voice. The doors to the Great Hall opened, and in walked Arthur and Merlin with four guards flanking them. Merlin had changed out of his tatty old robes into plum coloured ones. His long grey hair and beard had been washed and trimmed. Even his gnarled fingers looked clean. Arthur, on the other hand, looked like a wreck. He needed a shave, and he had several long scratches down the side of his face. From the pink swelling it looked as if they had only just been inflicted.

  Arthur took his seat, seven along from me, at the Round Table. I had never seen him look so tired, so defeated before. Not even after the time he got pounded during a Taekwondo sparring match because he was hungover.

  I pointed to my cheek and mouthed, how did you get those?

  He didn’t answer; he didn’t need to. Arthur’s eyes, usually a blinding blue, were so shadowed they were almost grey.

  It was Slurpy.

  Gwenddydd, I thought. Has she put a spell on him? Is that why he stays with her?

  Love is a spell, for good and bad. Obsessive love is the most destructive of all.

  Then I caught Merlin looking at me. His stare was penetrating and creepy. He was looking into me, not at me.

  Tristram was starting to lose it. He was banging the table, causing ripples in the spidery gold writing on the stone. Then Merlin slammed his staff into the floor, and a heavy bass-like sensation spread out through the hall. Those still arguing fell silent.

  “You have been summoned to the Round Table by your king,” said Merlin officiously. “You are here to decide on the fate of one of your own. Sir Bedivere wishes to be released from the bonds of knighthood...”

  Uproar ensued at those words. Those that loved Bedivere were shouting themselves hoarse that he would recover, and that they would renounce too if he was allowed to leave. Others - and I noticed Lady Fleur’s brother, Rupert, was the loudest - were shouting that it was a disgrace to even ask, and that he had already shown himself unworthy to continue.

  My stomach was twisting itself into a knot. I wanted to scream at them. How dare they stand there in front of him and call him dishonourable.

  “You may lessen your grip, my love,” whispered Bedivere into my ear. Looking down, I realised my hand was leaving an imprint on his leg.

  “Don’t do this.”

  “It is the only way.”

  “SILENCE,” screamed Guinevere again. “You dare call yourselves Knights of the Round Table, and yet you behave like warring peasants, fighting over crumbs of bread.”

  “I don’t want you to do this, Bedivere,” said Arthur wearily.

  “Sir Bedivere is not himself,” shouted Talan. “He is still healing from a wound that would have killed many. The very fact he is here today only proves his strength.”

  “Hear, hear.”

  “Let a real knight, one who is whole, sit in the seat.”

  Merlin slammed his staff into the floor once more. The shockwave was far more violent. Several knights toppled from their chairs. I felt as if all the breath had been sucked out of me.

  “Sir Bedivere, you must announce your intention to the Round Table. The old magic of a time before time will decide your fate. If there is one here who is worthy to take your seat, then his name will be revealed, and your right to call yourself Sir Bedivere will be relinquished forever more. Is this still your desire?”

  Bedivere nodded. With a grimace, he stood up. I wanted to hold his hand, but I was on his left. The fates were conspiring to humiliate us, to separate us.

  In a slow, gruff voice, Bedivere spoke. “I, Sir Bedivere,

  exiled son of Duke Corneus of Lindsey , renounce my seat at the Round Table of Camelot. I renounce my claim fully, in the knowledge that I will no longer be entitled to call myself a Knight of the Round Table, a Knight of Camelot...” - his voice was starting to break - “...a Knight of Arthur’s Realm.”

  The table was starting to vibrate. I looked over at Guinevere and saw the same concern mirrored back. This was the first time either of us had ever sat at the Round Table. Was this normal?

  Those who were standing on the perimeter of the Great Hall looked excited. Several were craning their necks to see what was happening. Then slowly, inch by inch, the golden ink started to withdraw from Bedivere’s name and image. It pulled back, towards the centre of the massive table, as if someone was sucking it up through a straw. I heard Bedivere’s gasp, which was repeated by his brother, who was sitting on his right. They must have seen this before, but for it to happen now, to him...

  The vibrations were getting stronger. The floor was shaking. Everyone was watching the carvings set into the dark grey stone. They had started to disappear too. I flicked my gaze over at Arthur; I couldn’t bear to look at Bedivere. Arthur was leaning against his seat, the grandest of them all, and he had covered his eyes with his hand.

  Excited mutterings were starting to sweep through the room. All pretence had gone, and those around the edges that had been craning their necks, were starting to inch their way forward.

  “What happens now?” asked Guinevere. I wasn’t sure who she directed her question to, but it was Tristram who answered.

  “The one whom the table decides is worthy to take Sir Bedivere’s place will now be revealed.”

  The contempt in his voice was clear. He was glaring at everyone in the room, daring them to contradict the fact he was still calling his friend Sir Bedivere.

  Bedivere was still standing, but both Lucan and I could tell he was weakening by the second. I no longer cared what the table revealed. The whole thing was a farce, and the sooner I got away from here the better. The table was now groaning, it was in pain. It sounded human. I tried to stand up to help Bedivere, but I couldn’t move.

  “What the hell?”

  “Until the Round Table has spoken, we cannot leave our seats,” whispered Lucan. “Brother, leave the Great Hall. You must return to yo
ur bed.”

  “Not until the passing is complete,” groaned Bedivere.

  “ARTHUR,” I cried. “Help him.”

  Arthur turned in his seat as the table continued to creak and groan. The place setting where Bedivere’s name had been was now completely smooth. No trace of the carvings that had linked him to me remained. The roses around my name now looked as if they were wilting.

  “Get Bedivere - Sir Bedivere - back to the physicians’ rooms. And get Taliesin – now,” ordered Arthur to the waiting guards.

  Lucan, Tristram, Gareth, Talan, David and Guinevere all beamed at my brother. Merlin, on the other hand, looked scornful. Arthur’s defiance of his precious Round Table was a personal insult.

  My legs and back were stuck firmly to the chair. Bedivere shooed away the guards that tried to help him.

  “When this is finished, I will come to you,” I called, as he slowly walked from the hall.

  But he didn’t answer. His broad shoulders were hunched forward. His good hand went to his face and my heart broke.

  “Merlin,” called a knight, in an accent that had a hint of French to the vowels. “How long must we wait until the siege is revealed?”

  But Merlin did not reply. He was staring into space with his arms outstretched.

  He is channelling the magic of the Round Table. It speaks to him.

  My fingers slid over the smooth surface, where moments before a carving of a unicorn had reared. The stone was hot.

  But the mutterings around the hall were losing their excitement. They were becoming more anxious. Knights were craning to see what was happening to the seat vacated by Bedivere.

  But nothing was happening.

  Then Talan started laughing. David joined in and he slapped Tristram on the back. Lucan appeared to be praying under his breath. Even Gareth had come out of his torpid reverie and was smiling.

  Finally, as the mutterings from those standing and waiting became louder cries of impatience, Merlin came back to the land of the living, and the invisible bonds which had forced me to stay in my seat were lifted. The table stopped groaning and vibrating and became quieter with just a gentle hum.