by Donna Hosie
Nimue wasn’t helpful. She was downright dangerous. A wolf in sheep’s clothing.
A crescendo of screaming voices slammed into my ears. The earth shuddered with the boom of rocks being hurled against the black walls of Camelot. How long had it been raining? I didn’t know. I felt jetlagged. Exhausted. Every inch of me was tingling, but not in a good way. Not in the way Bedivere made me feel.
I gasped. I had temporarily forgotten Bedivere and the others who were now in the thick of the fighting. Exhaustion turned to fear.
“Gaheris, Gawain,” commanded Arthur in a loud voice. He was looking to the walls of Camelot, which looked like they were bleeding torrents of black blood.
“Sire,” replied the brothers together; their swords were drawn.
Arthur took my hand.
“Ready to run, little sis?”
“Am I ever.”
We didn’t belong here, and yet it felt more like home than any other place I had ever lived in. I had never cared this much before. Never been forced to think or worry like this before.
“Take one of these,” I said to my brother, offering him the choice of my two daggers. My hands were trembling so much I dropped the blade Tristram had given me. Arthur picked it up from the dirt and wiped it on his filthy jeans.
“Stay with me,” said Arthur, squeezing my hand. The four of us started to run back towards the western tunnel. Arthur led the way, flanked by Gawain and Gaheris. I took up the rear point in the diamond formation. Dust and rocks were falling from the tunnel roof. Arthur knew exactly where to go, and soon my aching ribs were burning with pain as I tried to keep up with him. Cries, and deep voices barking commands, whipped around us like ghosts, but we saw no one until we had reached the top of a fourth set of black stone stairs.
Gawain and Gaheris leapt into action. The skirmish was brief, but bloody. Two Saxons, who appeared to be drunk, lost their heads. Another fell down the stairs, and landed with his shocked face staring in the wrong direction. It was the bony bulge in his neck that made me heave, and not the sight of two headless corpses spurting blood onto the tiled floor.
I grabbed Arthur.
“Don’t kill anyone,” I begged, wiping saliva away from my mouth with my sleeve. “It’s different for the others, they’re used to it.”
Arthur’s blue eyes blazed.
“So am I.”
We stopped briefly at a narrow slit set high in the wall. It offered a view of the battle raging outside.
“Can you see?”
Arthur shook his head, then turned and ruffled my hair with his hand.
“He’ll be okay, Titch.”
We ran on. Towering black sculptures lined the corridors. It was like journeying into one black hole after another. All candles had been extinguished and so there was no light to guide us, but Arthur and I somehow knew where to go.
Arthur stopped by a huge set of arched doors. Crude markings of naked bodies had been daubed onto the wood.
“They dare defile the Great Hall of Camelot,” snarled Gaheris angrily.
Arthur and Gawain pushed the thick oak panels inwards. They parted without a creak to reveal an enormous hexagonal room. Unlike the rest of the dark and dingy castle, this chamber was filled with light, which streamed in through tall arched windows on all six sides. If I had had the time, I would have taken a moment to take in the beauty of the stained windows, but my eyes were drawn to one colossal object, centred in the room.
A stone table.
I swore. So did Arthur.
The table was gigantic and made from one huge chunk of dark grey stone. The four of us approached it cautiously. Arthur, Gawain and Gaheris whipped their heads from left to right, back to front, keeping a constant eye for trouble. I could not. My eyes were drawn like magnets to a silver sword, plunged up to its hilt, in the dead centre of the stone.
It was only when I trod on a hand that I realised dead bodies littered the paved floor. Most were dressed in rags. Servants. Male, female, and even several children. There were no obvious markings on their pale bodies, but all had a stretched expression of deep pain frozen onto their faces.
“What happened here?”
“Balvidore sacrificed them,” replied Gawain. He made the sign of the cross on his chest.
“Why?”
“Only those anointed by Arthur may claim a right to the table,” explained Gaheris, as he became the first to touch it. His fingertips swept over the dull stone as he started to circle the perimeter. “If anyone else were to take a place that had not been afforded to them, then the blood of knights long lost would smote them where they sat. Balvidore is too cowardly to attempt to take the table and Excalibur by himself.”
“Don’t touch anything, Titch,” yelled Arthur, as I moved closer. “You aren’t a knight.”
Gaheris had stopped walking around the edge of the stone table. Both of his hands now rested on some deep carvings. He turned and smiled at his brother.
“Sir Gawain. Come quickly. We are still here. The four brothers, side by side once more.”
Now it was my turn to keep lookout, as the three boys arched themselves over the table, grinning like Cheshire Cats.
“So you three can touch it without dying,” I said quickly, as a sound like a stifled cough echoed in the corridor we had just left. “Awesome. Now what the hell do we do? Your friends are being slaughtered out there.”
“It is time to reclaim what has always been yours, Arthur,” said Gawain excitedly.
In one bounding leap, Arthur’s long limbs sprang him skywards and onto the table. With his right hand, he pulled the silver sword from the centre of the stone.
The sword itself was quite unremarkable. There were no rubies studded into the hilt like Percivale’s sword, and it was shorter than Bedivere’s. What was incredible was the reaction of the table itself. Like molten lava flowing from the centre, a thin gold river started to weave its way through the deep carvings. Scores of names and images were revealed, as the glistening ink poured from the heart of the table and stretched out like a spider’s web: Sir Tristram, Sir Gareth, Sir Baldulf, Sir Nudd…
“The siege is revealed once more,” said Gawain.
There was a heavy whistling sound, and Gaheris collapsed forward with a groan.
Arthur jumped from the table with a cry; his new sword raised high. I stumbled forward and pulled Gaheris from the table without touching it. We collapsed onto the stone floor. A small, triple-bladed axe was lodged in his neck. Gaheris gurgled as blood throbbed out in pulsating waves.
I pressed down on the wound in a bid to stem the bleeding, but it was no use. Any pressure I applied blocked what little space Gaheris had left in his windpipe. His hazel eyes rolled in his head and he died without a word.
I was frozen with shock. It had happened so quickly. One minute Gaheris was smiling, the next he was drowning in his own blood.
Gawain towered above me; his face contorted with raw grief. His fist went to his mouth, and I saw him bite down hard on his skin. I started to rock Gaheris in my arms, willing him to wake up. Choking sobs started to spasm in my chest.
“My aim has become poor,” boomed a deep male voice. “The axe was meant for you, Arthur. Now, if you will hand me that sword, I may let the wench live.”
I tore my eyes away from the river of blood that was soaking the body of Gaheris. It had been a trap.
Blocking the oak doors were at least ten Saxon warriors, axes clenched in their filthy hands. Bloodlust mingled with the saliva that drooled from their sneering mouths.
And in the centre, with an arrow aimed directly at my head, stood a man mountain draped in fur.
Balvidore.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Balvidore the Bear
His name had been mentioned a thousand times on this journey, and yet I had never really pictured him. I hadn’t given him time. He was the mythical bad guy; the bogey-man under the bed. Balvidore had become a figure to be mocked. I thought back to one of Talan’s songs: “B
alvidore the Bald.” A freak of nature that was small and weak.
The man that stood twenty metres in front of me was anything but small and weak. He was enormous, at least twice the size of Robert of Dawes. Bear-like, draped in black furs. His hair was thick and the colour of coal. It framed his head like a visor-less helmet. The hair didn’t seem to end and it covered his face and neck. His bulging stomach stuck out over the waistband of his magenta coloured pants; a wide expanse of hairy white flesh rippled with every panting breath. I could smell the odour seeping from him and his warriors. It was a vile mixture of sweat and stale wine.
Arthur and Gawain had positioned themselves in front of me. I knew it was hopeless. We were outnumbered. Gaheris was dead, and Gawain was still weak. Arthur knew how to handle a sword from his Taekwondo lessons, but it was all for show. I was sure his fifth degree black belt master never thought for a moment that the form Arthur religiously practised in the safety of a village hall would ever be put to actual use. Arthur may have wanted to be a king; he may have actually believed that he could be their king, but I wasn’t delusional. I knew the truth, and I would not lie to myself.
The enormity of what I had woken on that day in the forest finally hit me. Why had I argued with my mother? It was a stupid dance. I should have just locked myself in my room like Arthur did after an exchange of words. Instead, I had charged off into the forest, and straight into the path of the unknown terror that had been hidden beneath it for a thousand years.
Why me?
Will you stop your whining. Now think. What is that monstrous stinking oaf expecting you to do?
Panic, I thought to myself. Cry. Faint. I could do all of those things.
Stop being so pathetic. Do you want to live?
Stupid question. Of course I did. Nothing was worse than death.
Then concentrate and keep calm. Now if Balvidore is as stupid as he is fat, then the three of you can still get out of this alive.
Gaheris was still in my arms and I could feel the heat leaving him. The blood loss from the gaping neck wound was now a trickle. But I clutched my arms around him, drawing comfort from his corpse.
I thought back to what the brothers had said of the table: about the blood of past knights. Then an idea sprang into my head as I watched Gaheris’ blood run into the gold lettering on the Round Table. The two colours didn’t mix together to become one dark sludgy colour. They retained their own identity, running side by side into the deep grooves.
Balvidore would be expecting Arthur to give in, and in such an archaic age as this, the idea that a girl like myself would fight back would not even enter that thick skull of his. I didn’t understand American Football, but the words offensive and defensive kept jumping around in my brain.
Two entities, side by side, were always better than one. We were still a team, even with one man down.
I kissed Gaheris on the forehead, and gently placed him on the ground. My hands and clothes were soaked with blood. A metallic aroma wafted into my nostrils. It was the smell of death.
“Stay behind us, Titch,” hissed Arthur, as I squeezed my body into the narrow gap between him and Gawain.
“You have to knight me,” I whispered.
“What?”
“Knight me – now. Balvidore won’t be expecting that.”
“Are you insane?” replied my brother, as the Saxons started to sway. Their movements were ritualistic. Their shoulders hung loose; bodies bent forward at the knees. They looked like a line-up of gorillas, preparing to attack. A grunting moan was coming from every one of them, with the loudest belonging to Balvidore. They thought this was going to be easy, and they were going to enjoy it. It was like watching the New Zealand rugby team perform the Haka before they slaughtered the opposition.
“Knight me. They won’t be able to touch us if we’re all on the table. It will poison them the second they lay a finger on it. It’ll give us more time.”
My brother gasped.
“You’re brilliant.”
“I have my moments.”
Arthur swung Excalibur and let momentum carry it onto my shoulders. It was far heavier than it looked, and my knees buckled under the weight.
“Consider yourself knighted, Titch,” yelled Arthur. “Now get on the Round Table, both of you.”
Before Balvidore and his Saxon warriors had had time to register what was happening, I had clambered onto the table. It was warm to the touch. The golden spidery writing that had inked so many names was still fluid, but it left no trace on my hands. Arthur and Gawain followed, the body of Gaheris held tightly between them. They would not leave him to be the spoils of war.
“Titch, take this,” yelled Arthur. He thrust the sword into my hands, as he manoeuvred the legs of Gaheris onto the stone.
The Saxons rushed forward, but their axes were swinging at thin air. One hopeful Neanderthal threw his blade at us, but it bounced back off the perimeter. An invisible force field was in place to repel everything and anything that meant us harm. The short, crude axe rebounded back and hit its owner in the forehead, lodging between his eyes. He slumped down onto the body of a young woman. A putrid blast of gas blasted out of her frozen, wide mouth.
Gawain was now silently crying with Gaheris floppy in his arms. Arthur grabbed me tightly and kissed the top of my head. I could feel the grief shuddering through his body. We both knew the pain that came with losing a brother.
“How long do you think we have up here?”
“No idea,” replied Arthur quickly, wiping his eyes. “Now be quiet. I need to think.”
He still held me fast, which was uncomfortable. For someone skinny who was all arms and legs, Arthur was a lot stronger than he looked. His neck was arched back and he was gazing at the beamed ceiling. I knew it was no use. We were trapped. There was no way out.
Balvidore was shaking with rage. His sonorous voice was screaming at his men to attack, but all were unwilling to try. Balvidore took to slapping several of them around the head. Motivation, Saxon style.
I was watching him kick a Saxon in the stomach when I registered an increase in the noise from outside the chamber. The clank of metal against metal echoed around the hexagonal hall. The fighting from the grounds was coming closer.
“The walls have been breached, Arthur,” choked Gawain.
“Yeah,” replied Arthur, “but I think it’s our lot that has taken them. Listen.”
We could hear voices now. Unmistakable cries and orders that were bellowing out from the corridors of Camelot. I scrunched up my face and strained my ears, willing one particular gruff voice to identify itself in the midst of the near riot that was taking place, not far from where we stood.
Chaos broke out among Balvidore and the remaining Saxons. They had been so busy fighting among themselves, that they had failed to realise that they were now the ones who were trapped. Balvidore fired an arrow in anger. It lodged in the oak door with a violent twang.
Bodies surged through the doors. The arrow snapped and was swallowed in the sea of swords and shields that followed through. Percivale and Ronan were leading the charge, and for a moment, I thought we were saved, but in the swell of bodies that had forced their way into the hall, the Saxon ranks also multiplied. Several were hooded. The Gorians were also in the thick of it.
Gawain jumped down from the table brandishing his brother’s sword. It was immediately plunged into the back of a small Saxon, perhaps only sixteen years old. He fell to his knees and cried out, stretching his right arm out for help. The Saxon caught my eye and mouthed two words that I didn’t understand. He didn’t look like a fighter, he looked like a frightened little boy. I had a sickening feeling that he had just called for his mother. His body smashed to the ground, and was immediately kicked and smothered by the fighting. His glassy brown eyes stayed with me, imprinted in my mind, long after his face was kicked in by boots.
“Give me the sword, Titch,” cried Arthur, making to snatch the plain but heavy Excalibur from my hands. I pushed him
away.
“You’ll be killed,” I shouted back.
Arthur slid his foot against my heel and tripped me backwards across his bent knee. I fell flat on my backside. I remained the only person protected by the power of the Round Table as Arthur – Excalibur in his hand – jumped onto the back of a Saxon, who was waving a studded club around his head.
Screaming for my brother, I frantically searched the rapidly-moving heads for Bedivere. I couldn’t see him. Then a familiar voice caught my attention. A thick Scouse accent that stood out amongst the cries and shouts: Robert of Dawes, the Caerleon court physician, who had also stumbled into this world and was now desperate to escape. He had a sword in his hand, but it was his fist that was connecting with every Saxon nose it could find.
There was nothing left for it. I picked up Gawain’s blade and threw myself to the side of the hall. A mace, the size of my head, smashed into the stone wall, just inches from my ear. It wasn’t aimed at me, but the brute who was swinging it had just been cut down by a Caerleon knight, and had fallen backwards with part of his skull dripping brains onto the floor.
Sense and sensibility had left me. What had I done? I should have stayed on the table. Despite my true intentions after the Ddraig attack, I’m no fighter. No killer. Then two hairy thick arms grappled me from behind.
“Where do you think you’re going, wench?”
Something cold and wet pressed against my throat. Balvidore had placed a bloody knife beneath my right ear.
“Arthur,” roared the Saxon king. “I have your wench. Your knights are dying. Give me the sword and I will let her go.”
He had to shout his ultimatum another three times before the fighting ceased enough for him to be heard. As the crowd parted, bodies slumped to the floor.
My top teeth were biting down hard onto my bottom lip. I knew I was shaking violently. I was trying so hard to be brave, but I knew Balvidore would slit my throat without hesitation. For the first time, I realised what it was like to be on the true edge of death. This was genuine fear. Everything experienced so far was just the prelude.