She was a charged vessel of power, like the Holy Regalia which it was death to touch unprepared, and all this power of her long preparation would be hers to bind the Merlin to her . . . but she must wait for the tide to slacken and fill again; at the dark moon she must take the other tide which came of the other side of the moon . . . not fertile but barren, not of life at all but of dark magic older than human life. . . .
And the Merlin knew these things; he knew of the old curse of the dark moon and the barren womb . . . he must be so wholly enspelled by her that he would not even wonder why she had refused him at the spring tide and sought him out at the slack. She had one advantage: he did not know that she knew these things, he had never seen her in Avalon. Yet the bond went between them both ways, and if she could read his thoughts, he might read hers; she must guard herself every moment lest he see within and guess her purposes.
I must so wholly blind him with desire that he will forget . . . forget all he has been taught in Avalon. And at the same time, she must not be overcome by his desire, she must contain her own. It would not be easy.
She began to frame in her mind the next wile she would use on him. Tell me of your childhood, she would say, tell me how you were so hurt. Sympathy would be a powerful bond; she knew just how she would touch him with the very tips of her fingers . . . and she knew, in despair, that she was seeking out ways to be near him and touch him, not for her work but for her own hunger.
Can I make this spell without bringing myself, too, to ruin?
“You were not at the Queen’s feast,” murmured the Merlin, looking into Nimue’s eyes, “and I had made a new song for you. . . . It was the fulling of the moon, and there is great power in the moon, lady. . . .”
She looked at him, all intent. “Truly? I know so little of these things . . . are you a magician, my lord Merlin? I sometimes feel helpless, that you are working your magic on me. . . .”
She had hidden herself at the full moon, sure that if he looked into her eyes at that time he would be able to read her thoughts and perhaps divine her purposes. Now that the strength of that magical tide was past, she could, perhaps, guard herself from him.
“You must sing me your song now.” She sat listening, feeling her whole body quiver as the harp strings quivered under his touch.
I cannot bear it, I cannot . . . I must act this time as soon as the moon is dark. Another of these tides, she knew, and she would succumb to the flood tide of hunger and desire she was building between them . . . and I would never be able to betray him . . . I would be his forever, for this life and beyond. . . .
She reached out and touched the twisted lumps that were his wrist bones, and the touch thrilled her with longing. She could only imagine from the sudden dilation of his pupils, the swift intake of his breath, what it had done to him.
Betrayal, she thought, under the inexorable laws of fate, betrayal would be punished a thousandfold by the Goddess, in life after life; betrayed and betrayer would be punished and bound together for love and hate for thousands of years. But she did this at the command of the Goddess, she had been sent to punish a traitor for betrayal . . . would she then be punished in turn? If it were so, then there was no justice even in the realms of the Gods. . . .
Christ said true repentance wipes out all sin. . . .
But fate and the laws of the universe cannot be so easily set aside. The stars in their courses do not stop because someone cries out to them, Stop!
Well, be it so; perhaps she betrayed the Merlin as part of a deed done by one of them before the ancient land beneath the waves had sunk into the sea. It was her fate, and she dared not question. He had stopped playing and closed his hand softly over hers; as if in a daze, she laid her lips to his. Now, now it is too late to turn back.
No. It had been too late to turn back when she had bowed her head and accepted the work Morgaine laid on her. It had been too late to turn back when she swore the oath to Avalon. . . .
“Tell me more of yourself,” she whispered, “I want to know everything about you, my lord. . . .”
“Call me not so. My name is Kevin.”
“Kevin,” she said, and made her voice soft and tender, just brushing her fingers again over his arm.
Day by day she wove her spell, with touches and glances and whispered words, as the moon waned away toward darkness. After that first, swift kiss, she withdrew again, as if he had frightened her. It is true. But it is more that I frightened myself . . . never, never in all the years of seclusion had she suspected herself of being capable of such passion, such hunger; and she knew that her spells were enhancing it in herself as in him. At one point, teased beyond endurance by her whispered touches, the soft brushing of her hair against his face when she bent over him where he sat at his harp, he turned and seized her and crushed her to him, and she struggled in real, not pretended, fright this time.
“No—no, I cannot—you forget yourself—I beg you, let me go—” she cried out, and when he only clasped her closer, burying his face in her bosom and covering her breasts with kisses, she began to cry softly. “No, no, I am afraid, I am afraid—”
He let her go then and drew away, almost in a daze. His breath was hoarse and hard. He sat with his eyes closed, his twisted hands hanging limp. After a moment he murmured, “My beloved, my precious white bird, my own sweetheart—forgive me—forgive me—”
Nimue realized that now she could use even her own very real fear for her own ends. She said, whimpering, “I trusted you. I trusted you—”
“You should not,” he said hoarsely. “I am no more than a man, and certainly not less than one . . .” and she cringed at the bitterness as he added, “I am a man of flesh and blood, and I love you, Nimue, and you play with me as if I were a lapdog and expect me to be tame as a gelded pony . . . do you think because I am a cripple I am less than a man?”
In his mind Nimue could see, clear and mirrored, memory of a time when he had said this to the first woman who had ever come to him, and saw Morgaine reflected in his eyes and his mind, not the Morgaine she knew but a dark, bewitching woman, soft of voice, yet somehow terrible too, worshipped and also feared because through the daze of passion he could remember that suddenly the lightning would strike. . . .
Nimue reached her hands to him and knew they were trembling and that he would never know why. She guarded her thoughts carefully and said, “I never thought that. Forgive me, Kevin. I—I could not help myself—”
And it is all true. Goddess, it is all true. But not as he believes. What I say is not what he hears.
And yet for all her pity and desire there was a thread of contempt too. Otherwise I could not bear it, to do what I do . . . but a man so nakedly at the mercy of desire is contemptible. . . . I too tremble, I am torn . . . but I will not be at the mercy of my body’s hunger. . . .
And that was why Morgaine had given her the key to this man, put him wholly into her hands. Now was the time to speak the words that would consolidate the spell, make him hers, body and soul, so that she might bring him to Avalon and the appointed doom.
Pretend! Pretend to be one of those feckless virgins Gwenhwyfar has about her, with their minds between their legs!
She said, faltering, “I am sorry—I know you are indeed a man—I am sorry I was afraid—” and she raised her eyes to his, a gaze aslant through her long hair, afraid that if he could look deep into her eyes she would blurt out all her duplicity. “I . . . I—yes, I wanted you to kiss me, but then you were so fierce, and I was frightened. This is neither the time nor the place, someone might come suddenly upon us, and then the Queen would be angry, and I am one of her maidens, and she has warned us that we must not run about with men . . .”
Is he fool enough to believe me when I speak such simpering nonsense?
“My poor darling!” Kevin covered her hands with contrite kisses. “Ah, I am a beast to frighten you, I love you so . . . I love you so much that I cannot bear it! Nimue, Nimue, are you so afraid of the Queen’s anger? I cann
ot—” He stopped and breathed again, hard. “I cannot live like this—would you have it that I should be gone from this court? Never, never have I—” he stopped again and then, holding her hands between his, he said, “I cannot live without you. I must have you or die. Will you not have some pity on me, beloved?”
She lowered her eyes, with a long sigh, watching his contorted face, his dazed breathing. At last she whispered, “What can I say to you?”
“Say that you love me!”
“I love you.” She knew that she sounded like a woman under a spell. “You know that I do.”
“Say that you will give me all your love, say that—ah, Nimue, Nimue, you are so young and beautiful, and I am so twisted and ugly, I cannot believe you care for me, even now I think I am dreaming, that you have for some reason roused me like this that you might make fun of the beast grovelling at your feet like a dog. . . .”
“No,” she said, and swiftly, as if she were afraid of her own daring, bent quickly down and laid the lightest of kisses against his eyes, two darting swallows that came and went.
“Nimue, will you come to my bed?”
She whispered, “I am frightened . . . we might be seen, and I dare not be so wanton—we might be discovered.” She arranged her lips into a childish pout. “If we were caught, then the men would think you only all the more manly for it, and none would chide or shame you, but I, I am a maiden and they would point to me as a harlot or worse . . .” and she let tears slide down her cheek, but inward she was all triumph. I have him now safe within my net. . . .
“I would do anything, anything to protect you, to reassure you . . .” Kevin said, his voice trembling with sincerity.
“I know men like to boast of their conquest of maidens,” she said. “How do I know you will not brag of it throughout Camelot, that you have the favor of the Queen’s kinswoman and have taken her maidenhood?”
“Trust me, I beg you, trust me—what can I do? What proof can I give you of my sincerity? You know that I am yours, body and heart and soul—”
And for a moment she was angry, I do not want your damned soul, she thought, close to weeping with tension and fear. He held her between his hands and whispered, “How? When will you be mine? What can I do to prove that I love you beyond all things?”
She said, hesitating, “I cannot take you to my bed. I sleep in a room with four of the Queen’s ladies, and any man who came there would be seized by the guards—”
He said, bending again to cover her hands with kisses, “My poor little love, I would never bring shame on you. I have a place of my own—a little chamber fit for a dog, mostly because none other of the King’s men wishes to share quarters with me. I do not know if you would dare to come there.”
“Surely there must be some better way . . .” she whispered, keeping her voice soft and tender. Damn you, how can I suggest it without dropping this pretense of maidenly innocence and stupidity . . . ? “I cannot think of anywhere within the castle where we could be truly safe, and yet—” She stood and pressed herself against him, where he sat, her breasts just nudging his brow.
He flung his arms around her and buried his face in her body, his shoulders shaking. Then he said, “At this season—it is warm and fair and there is little rain. Would you dare to come out of doors with me, Nimue?”
She murmured as artlessly as she could, “I would dare anything to be with you, my love.”
“Then—tonight . . . ?”
“Oh,” she whispered, shrinking, “the moonlight is so bright, we should be seen . . . wait a few days, then there will be no moon. . . .”
“When the moon is dark—” Kevin flinched, and she knew that here was the moment of danger, the moment when the carefully played fish might slip off the hook and out of the net and be free. In Avalon the priestesses secluded themselves at moon-dark, and all magic was suspended . . . but he knew not that she was of Avalon.
Would his fear or his desire win out? She was motionless, just fluttering her fingers within his. He said, “That is an uncanny time—”
“But I am afraid to be seen. . . . You do not know how angry the Queen would be with me, if she knew I was such a wanton as to desire you . . .” she said, holding herself a little closer to him. “Surely you and I do not need a moon to see one another. . . .”
He held her tight, his face buried in her breasts, covering them with hungry kisses. And then he whispered, “My little love, let it be as you will, be the moon light or dark . . .”
“And you will take me away from Camelot afterward? I do not want to be shamed . . .”
“Anywhere,” he said, “I swear it . . . I will swear it by your God, if you will.”
She murmured, bending her head close to him, her hands moving through the sweet clean curliness of his hair, “The Christian God does not like lovers, and hates it when women lie with men . . . swear it by your God, Kevin, swear it by the serpents around your wrists. . . .”
He whispered, “I swear,” and the meaning of the oath seemed to ripple the air around them both.
Oh, fool, you have sworn to your death. . . . Nimue shivered, but Kevin, his face still hidden against her breasts, his hot breath damping her gown, was oblivious to anything except her breasts under his lips. As a promised lover he took the privilege of touching, kissing, drawing her gown aside a little to cup them in his hands. “I do not know how I can bear to wait.” And she murmured, “No, nor I,” and meant it with all her heart.
I would that this was done. . . .
The moon would not be visible, but the moon tide would turn exactly two hours after sunset, three days from now; she could feel its ebbing like a great sickness in her blood, withdrawing life from her veins. Most of those three days she spent in her chambers, telling the Queen that she was ill, and it was not far from the truth. Much of her time alone she spent with her hands on Kevin’s harp, meditating, filling the ether around her with the magical bond between them.
An ill-omened time, and Kevin knew it, as she did; but he was too blinded by the promise of her love to care.
The day dawned when the moon would darken; Nimue felt it through her body. She had made herself an herbal brew which would keep the moon-dark bleeding from coming on—she did not want to disgust him with the sight of her blood, nor frighten him to recalling the taboos of Avalon. She had to turn her mind away from the physical realities of the act; for all her training, she knew that in truth she was the nervous virgin she pretended to be. Well, so much the better, she need not try to pretend. She could simply be what she was—a girl giving herself for the first time to a man she loved and desired. And what would come after that, well, it was as the Goddess had bidden her.
She hardly knew how to make the day pass. Never had the chatter of Gwenhwyfar’s ladies seemed so meaningless, so vapid. In the afternoon she could not turn her mind to spinning, so she brought the harp Kevin had given her and played and sang for them; but it was not easy, she must avoid all the songs of Avalon, and they were the ones which she found floating in her mind. But even the longest day wears to sunset. She washed herself and scented her body, and sat near Gwenhwyfar in the hall, merely picking at her food, sick and faint, disgusted by the grossness of the table manners, the dogs under the table. She could see Kevin seated among the King’s councillors, near the house priest who confessed some of the ladies. He had been bothering her, asking why she did not seek spiritual advice, and when she said she was in no need of it, frowning as if she were the worst of sinners. Kevin. She could almost feel his hungry hands on her breast, and it seemed as if the look he sent toward her must be audible.
Tonight. Tonight, my beloved. Tonight.
Ah, Goddess, how can I do this to this man who loves me, who has put his whole soul into my hands. . . . I have sworn. I must keep my oath or be as much a traitor as he.
They met for a moment in the lower hall as the Queen’s ladies went away to their chambers. He said, swiftly and very low, “I have concealed your horse and mine in the woods b
eyond the gate. Afterward"—and his voice shook—"afterward I will take you away wherever you will, lady.”
You do not know whither I shall lead you. But it was too late to turn back. She said, through tears she could not control, “Ah, Kevin, I—I love you—” and knew it was true. She had wound herself so deep in his heart that she did not know, she could not even imagine, how she could bear to be apart from him. It seemed to her that the whole air of the night was alive with magic, that somehow others must see this great trembling in the air and the darkness hovering over her.
The Mists of Avalon Page 120