by Donna Hosie
“Shut up, you bitch.” My face jerked to the right as Slurpy slapped me.
“ENOUGH,” bellowed Arthur, stepping in between us, as Mila’s screams threatened to shatter windows. His entire body was shaking with anger.
Slurpy threw herself backwards onto the bed. She was holding the hand that had slapped me. Her fleshy palm had swollen up with violent pink welts.
“What have you done to me?” she screeched. “Stop looking at me.”
“I’d be happy never to set eyes on you again.”
“Don’t you ever touch my sister again, Sam. I’m warning you.”
“Or you’ll do what? Finish with me? You’ll never see Mila again.”
“Titch, go back to Gwen,” said Arthur. “I need to talk to Sam – alone.”
Merlin’s ominous words about me and Arthur being separated suddenly swam into my memory. I didn’t want to leave him.
Bedivere needs you.
“I’m sorry, Arthur.”
“Go find him,” whispered Arthur. His eyes were transfixed on Slurpy, who hadn’t paused for breath and was now accusing everyone she had ever met of ruining her life. The pink welts on Slurpy’s hand had already paled. Whatever had caused that sudden reaction in her skin, it was momentary.
I should have told Arthur I loved him, but I didn’t know how to. Brothers and sisters don’t do that.
I wish I had.
I kept my next conversation with Gwenddydd inside my head. I didn’t need witnesses from the castle, as I ran back outside to find Tristram’s search party.
How could she see you? She has never seen you before.
My essence is now stronger, Natasha. Ever since you met Morgana, she has been aware that there was something different about you. She called you a freak. One thousand years ago, she would have called you a witch. Those who are different are always feared and despised. I believe that Morgana can now see my essence in the windows of your soul, Natasha.
She said I had four eyes.
She would have seen a double reflection staring back at her. My soul and yours are very separate. You should be thankful.
Why did her hand burn?
Do not forget how I died.
You won’t appear like that to anyone else will you? Especially Bedivere.
My brother can see me, and it is likely that the Lady of the Lake would too, now you have allowed me to reveal myself. But I can assure you that no one else will, Natasha. Especially Bedivere.
Can you sense where he is? Is that within your power? Merlin said you were the greatest seer that Logres ever had. Can you please look into the future? Can you find him?
I cannot do that, Natasha. Your love for Bedivere is too strong. It would influence what I see.
The wind had picked up. Dark clouds loomed ominously on the horizon. They looked purple and bruised. The tents that had been pitched up for the travelling guests were flapping violently with each gust. I looked around for someone I recognised, but everyone I knew had gone.
Do Mordred and Slurpy – Morgana – do they have some kind of connection?
Yes. Sir Mordred and Morgana have a connection. She started to go through the realm of transition with his help.
But Nimue hates her because of my brother. There’s no way in a million years that Nimue and Slurpy will join forces – not even against me.
Their futures are clouded to me, Natasha. I cannot see past ice and the rush of water. I see them together – yet apart.
We had reached a drawbridge. I called out several names, but no one answered. I grabbed a guard, who was pulling a reluctant chestnut coloured horse across the bridge.
“Have you seen Guinevere?” I asked.
“Make your way to the back of the castle, m’lady,” he replied. “If you are seeking Lady Guinevere, she has ridden out with Sir Tristram towards the valley.”
“Can I take your horse? I’ll bring it back.”
“He is lame, m’lady. You will not get far on this brute.”
“Please, can you help me? I’m...I’m engaged to Sir Bedivere. I must find him.”
“Aye, I know who you are, m’lady. Now if you wait here, I will fetch you a steed for your purpose.”
Engaged?
I didn’t know what else to say. Girlfriend wasn’t good enough – not for this. I needed to be something more than just a moment in time.
Moments later, I was galloping through mud and straw. Rain had started to fall. My hatred of water was only matched by my hatred of Nimue. Gwenddydd stayed silent. She didn’t need to say anything because I felt her grim satisfaction inside my heart.
I would rid this land of Nimue, if it was the last thing I ever did.
Chapter Ten
Bedivere’s Loss
Bedivere and Gareth were found by Lucan and his search party by the western tunnels: the same tunnels that we had used the previous year to rescue Arthur. By the time the other search parties had been told, gossip had well and truly taken over, and rumours that they had both been killed outweighed those that said they were alive.
I couldn’t remember riding to the western tunnels, but somehow I managed to get there. Tears and rain became one, as I dismounted and stumbled towards the only person still waiting: David. He was huddled on a boulder the size of a small car. His boots were caked in mud up to the knee, and his red ceremonial tunic was soaked through. With his long dark hair flattened to his face by the rain, he looked about twelve years old.
“Lady Natasha,” he croaked. He tried to stand, but he appeared to have frozen to the spot because he couldn’t move his legs properly.
“Where are they? Where’s Bedivere? Is he alive? David, tell me they’re alive.”
“They are alive, Lady Natasha...”
I didn’t hear what David went on to say because the weight of relief had sent me sprawling into the mud. Bedivere hadn’t drowned like the others in the tunnels. Nimue hadn’t taken him in the same way she had taken Patrick.
“Lady Natasha,” called David. “Lady Natasha, did you hear me?”
“He’s alive, David,” I replied. “Thank you for staying to tell me. Thank you, thank you. Now where are they? Have they been taken into the castle? Of course they have – but where? Is Lucan with them? Taliesin? They must be freezing...”
“Lady Natasha,” said David, gripping my hand. “You did not hear me.” He looked stricken.
“You...you said they were alive...”
The rain was lashing down on us. The world illuminated for a brief second, as a blanket flash of lightning cracked above the clouds. Several seconds later, thunder rumbled overhead.
“Sir Bedivere has been grievously injured, Lady Natasha,” said David. He was shaking his head. “Sir Gareth stayed with him; I did not hear all of what occurred. I stayed here to wait, for I knew you would come back for him.”
“What do you mean grievously injured?”
“This was more than just the heinous work of the Lady of the Lake,” replied David. His next words were drowned out by the increasing tempest. The elements were shouting to be heard.
“I don’t understand,” I cried. “What happened, David?”
“I will take you to the physician’s quarters, Lady Natasha. We must get out of this storm, or we will perish ourselves.”
David went to lead me around to the front of the castle, but I shook him off. I had used the tunnels before. This way would be quicker. I didn’t have time.
“I do not know the way, Lady Natasha.”
I do.
Get me to him, Gwenddydd. Get me to Bedivere – now.
All my thoughts, every ounce of my energy, were consumed by my need to get to Bedivere. I didn’t feel the cold, I couldn’t sense the wet. Even the pain in my leg was gone, as I hurtled like a train through the dark tunnels towards Bedivere. My long legs jumped three steps at a time as we climbed upwards through the labyrinth of Camelot.
The physician’s rooms were on the second floor. The smell was disgusting, like rotting food. Th
e first chamber I ran into was completely empty. I could hear voices, echoing through another door. I pulled at a rusting latch. It wouldn’t budge.
With my panic rising, I went into a second room. Three old men, with protruding ears that made them look like water jugs, were sitting behind a long table that was covered in stained, hand-written books and chopped carrots. They were cutting bulbous white roots into tiny squares. To their left, was a row of small black cauldrons, hanging over a roaring fireplace, and it was from these that the rancid smell was wafting. I could see metal handles sticking out of each cauldron.
“I’m looking for Bedivere and Gareth, two of Arthur’s knights,” I called. My voice, already strangled with fear, tightened even further as I breathed in the fumes from the cauldrons. My throat felt hot and gritty, like I had swallowed sand.
“Lady Natasha,” cried an Irish voice.
Talan rushed in through the door. “Where’s Bedivere?” I demanded.
The three old men stood up in unison and walked over to the cauldrons. Their gnarled fingers clasped a separate handle, and they each pulled out a knife with a different type of blade. One was like a meat cleaver, another was long and thin, and the third knife was small and pointed with jagged teeth.
“Tell Taliesin we are ready,” they said in unison.
“Lady Natasha, give praise to the mother of Ireland,” panted Talan. “Sir Bedivere needs you. He has lost so much blood. We feared you would come too late.”
Unable to speak, I followed Talan, as did the three old men. My legs felt detached from my body. I was on autopilot. I wasn’t even sure I was breathing anymore. I wanted to run, but it was like being in one of those nightmares where you are running in slow motion. I couldn’t get away from the horror that was chasing me down.
Talan led me into a room, three doors down. It was small, without windows, with a single bed in its centre. Lying on it was Bedivere.
At first glance he looked perfect, like he was asleep. His hair was damp, and it had curled up a little, but there wasn’t a mark, not a scratch on his face.
Then Gareth – who was bent sobbing over Bedivere’s left side – shifted a little.
I screamed.
“Do not look, Lady Natasha,” cried Lucan.
“This is no place for a lady,” said the old man with the meat cleaver gripped between his cadaverous hands.
“GET AWAY FROM HIM,” I screamed, suddenly realising what they intended to do with the knives. “DON’T YOU TOUCH HIM.”
Bedivere groaned. I pushed Lucan and Gareth out of the way, and threw myself down beside the bed. Bedivere had been strapped down. His legs, body and shoulders were tightly bound by long lengths of leather.
“Bedivere, it’s me, it’s Natasha,” I sobbed, stroking the hair away from his face. “I won’t let them hurt you.”
“Sir Lucan, you will need to get rid of the woman,” said another of the old men in a rasping voice. “We need to remove the arm now, or Sir Bedivere will die.”
Bedivere’s left arm – his sword arm – was swathed in blood-soaked bandages. Bile rose in my throat as I looked at his hand. It was resting on bloodied sheets, but was at a different angle to his elbow.
“Lady Natasha...” whispered Lucan, but I stood up quickly, and withdrew Angharad from the scabbard tied to the belt around my waist.
“The first person to touch him dies.” My voice was calm and completely at odds with the violent horror that was drowning me. “Where’s Taliesin? He stitched me up after the dwarf-riders’ attack. He can mend Bedivere’s arm.”
“I am here, Lady Natasha,” said a soft voice. In the doorway was the elderly physician. He looked broken. Huge folds of skin hung from beneath his bloodshot eyes.
“Make him better,” I begged. “You can do anything.”
“Sir Bedivere has lost too much blood already, Lady Natasha,” replied Taliesin. He approached me with his crinkled palms raised. “The arm must be removed and the stump cauterised. There is no other way.”
“Then get Merlin and Arthur,” I cried. “We’ll take Bedivere back to my time. The doctors – the physicians in my world can save him, they’ll save his arm.”
“He will not survive the journey,” sobbed Gareth. “Arthur has already asked these questions.”
The three old men took a step towards me. I screamed - an incoherent primal sound that came from the depth of my stomach - and waved Angharad wildly at them.
“My...Natasha...”
I dropped to Bedivere’s side again. His face grimaced with pain.
“Let them...let them...”
“He is still losing blood, Lady Natasha,” said Taliesin. “We must do this now, or he will die.”
“But he loves you,” I cried. “He trusts you. You can’t do this to him.”
“You are not the only one here who loves him,” sobbed Gareth.
I had never understood how painful true grief was until that moment. Patrick’s death had destroyed my family, but I had been too young to really understand the gut-wrenching loss that tears at your soul until there is nothing left. I couldn’t stand, I couldn’t breathe. This wasn’t happening. Bedivere was bleeding to death, and a crude amputation was the only way to save his life.
The physicians realised I had capitulated before I did. They swept past me, placed a thin wooden block into Bedivere’s mouth, and told him to bite down.
“Remove Lady Natasha,” said Taliesin. “She must not bear witness.”
But there was no way I was going to leave him. Not now, not ever.
“I’m staying. Now what do you want me to do?” I was still on autopilot. I didn’t believe they would actually do it.
“Hold his head,” replied Lucan. “Speak to him with words of love, words of hope. Give Sir Bedivere good reason to stay with us.”
The old man with the meat cleaver pulled back the swath of bandages from Bedivere’s left arm. I immediately heaved and turned away at what was left of his forearm. Blood-soaked flesh and stringy lengths of purple muscle were exposed to the bone.
I went to the end of the bed and wrapped my arms around Bedivere, burying my head into the nook between his right shoulder and head. I closed my eyes and smelt his hair. I wanted it to smell of bread and beer; it smelt of sea water and blood.
I felt Bedivere go rigid. He knew what was coming.
“Stay with me. Stay with me, Bedivere. I love you. I love you...”
He screamed only once: when they cauterised the end of his forearm with fire. The smell of burnt flesh made me throw up over my boots. I didn’t watch. I just kept my head near his, whispering words I knew he was in too much pain to hear.
At some point I passed out. It wasn’t sleep, but my body gave up on me. Perhaps Gwenddydd took over to release me – and her – from the shock of what had happened. When I woke up, stiff and in pain from the adrenaline, I was on another bed in another windowless room. Arthur was sitting on the floor with his knees hunched up. He was twirling a jewel-handled dagger between his fingers.
“It was Mordred,” whispered Arthur. He put his head back against the black stone wall and then started to repetitively butt it.
“Is Bedivere...?”
“He’s fighting, but he’s really ill, Titch. Taliesin says it will be days, possibly weeks before we know if he’s going to make it.”
“I have to be with him.”
Arthur nodded as I rose from the bed.
“You said it was Mordred.”
Arthur held out his hand and I pulled him up from the floor. He crushed me into a hug.
“Gareth said Mordred was already out of the dungeons by the time he and Bedivere got there. They were fighting, and Bedivere was all over Mordred when they heard your voice calling for help.”
“But I wasn’t down there.”
“It wasn’t you, Titch. It was some kind of illusion. Gareth said they saw you dressed in black with blood running down your face, but it was enough to distract Bedivere. Gareth ran to the vision but it disap
peared. Mordred took his chance and attacked Bedivere from behind, before the water came and carried them all through the tunnel into the open. Gareth saved Bedivere from being swept away completely, but his arm, Titch...”
There was a knock on the door. Guinevere and Tristram entered the room. They curtsied and bowed.
“How’s Bedivere?” asked Arthur. I said nothing, not because I didn’t want to know, but because I was too damn scared to hear the answer.
“Taliesin, Sir Lucan and Sir Gareth are keeping vigil,” replied Tristram. “Sir Talan and Sir David are waiting to take over. Sir Bedivere sleeps. The milk of the poppy has dulled his suffering, and the physicians are already preparing for the cleansing. He will be afforded the best care in the kingdom.”
“Cleansing?” asked Arthur.
“Sir Bedivere’s damaged flesh will rot,” explained Guinevere. “The maggots will cleanse the wound.”
Guinevere turned to me. Her face was grey, like ash. Her long blonde hair looked darker and heavier than normal as it fell all the way down her back.
“Your bravery astounds me, Lady Natasha,” she whispered, taking my cold hands in hers. “You did not forsake him. I could not have done it.”
Replying was simply too much effort. My body felt like it had been wrapped in bandages dipped in concrete. I stumbled past all of them, and followed the rancid smell to the room where Bedivere was. Linen sheets covered the lower part of his body, which was stripped bare. A glistening sheen of sweat covered every inch of skin. He looked orange, bathed in the glow of the candles that were hung in cast-iron brackets along the walls of the small room.
They had removed his left hand just below the elbow. The stump was wrapped in white linen and was already stained black with dried blood.