"Nimue" by Chelsea Castonguay

                                                            Nimue

            ‘It wasn’t supposed to be like this!’ she thought frantically. The knight stood before her, his dark blue eyes narrowed and cold. He regarded her icily, not saying anything. She had imagined a happy scene with him breaking into a delighted smile at her news, sweeping her off her feet and kissing her warmly.  She had not expected the silence, the tense muscles in his shoulders and the clenched fists. She almost wished he would strike out at her, just to end the wait.

‘I am going to be the mother of your child!’ she had informed him just a few moments earlier, placing his hand on her stomach. He had jerked his hand away as if her touch burned his skin, and now stood on the far side of her chamber, staring at her. He had been gone for months, and had only just returned, had only been home for a few weeks and already she was with child. Her hopes were that a child would prompt him to marry her, would end the chilly silences between them and bring the love back into his eyes, softening his glances which had become sharper and sharper towards her lately. The only time she could even see a glimmer of his old self was when he took her to bed, but even that had changed. In the early days of their love he had been soft and gentle, now he was rough and uncaring of her feelings. He would take her to his bed only after she had begged and pleaded, he would make love to her briefly and then leave. She longed for the days when he had held her the whole night through, and they had fallen asleep in each other’s arms, waking up the same way.

            ‘What can I do to make you happy?’ she asked, falling to her knees before him. She reached up and grabbed his hands, which he grudgingly allowed her to kiss. ‘I thought this would please you,’ she said, her voice soft and pitiful. Deep in her heart, she had always known he would react like this, but she had hoped he would soften towards the idea of a child with her red silky hair, and his bright blue eyes. A son, perhaps, who could take after her father and become a great knight to carry on his name?

            “You could get rid of it,” he suggested, breaking her out of her reverie. His removed one of his hands from her grasp and lightly stroked her hair, the first real touch from him since he had returned. ‘I’ve told you time and time again, Nimue, I am not ready for a child. I am not ready to marry you,’

            She looked up at him, her eyes revealing how heartbroken she truly was and he sighed, ‘I love you and in due time I will ask King Arthyr for your hand. Until then, you must be content, my love,” He reached down and pulled her to her feet, kissing her forehead gently. “I will come to you tomorrow night. Please deal with the problem before then, all right?” he said, kissing her once again before leaving the room.

                                                            _________________

            The knocking of a page on his chamber door jolted the knight out of deep sleep. Nimue hadn’t appeared at the feast that night, but had assumed it was because she was taking care of the issue. He knew Nimue was skilled with herbs, and in the past had used potions to prevent herself from becoming pregnant. Why she had stopped and then lied about it, was beyond him. He couldn’t understand her obsession with having a child. His own fort was nearing completion, and once he had obtained Arthyr’s permission, he was going to formally ask for her hand in marriage. In the chest at the foot of his bed, there was a small box containing a moonstone ring once belonging to his mother, a ring that she said he must only give to the woman he loved. His heart grew warm at the thought of Nimue wearing it and he couldn’t wait to see her expression when he slipped it onto her slim finger.

            The knocking of the page grew more insistant, and finally, he burst through the door, the light spilling in from the corridor and making the knight blink.

            “What is it? Is it the King? Has he returned?” he asked, scrambling to find pants. The page shook his head, his young eyes filled with worry.

            “It’s the Lady Nimue. She is ill and asking for you,” the page informed him. The knight’s head jerked up sharply from fastening his leather boots.

            “She’s ill? With what?” he asked, hoping it wasn’t a play from Nimue to get her into his room in the middle of the night. She was not above sending pages for him at a  moment’s notice or when the whim struck her. The boy once again shook his head, urgency in his voice.    

            “The King’s surgeon is seeing to her, my Lord. He says she is dying.”

            The words struck the knight like a sword through his gut. He shook his head, trying to clear away the cobwebs that the Death Crone throws over one’s mind while in sleep. ‘Dying? Nimue?’ he asked dumbly as the page grasped his arm and pulled him out of his apartments. However, once he was outside his smoky chamber and in the cool corridors of Camelot, he regained his senses and left the page behind as he ran towards the chambers where the Queen’s ladies-in-waiting slept. A cluster of crying girls and servants stood outside the door of the chamber, and the Queen emerged just as they parted to allow him through. Her dark eyes seemed black with grief, and the knight felt a wave of love surge through her. As much as he cared for Nimue, his true love would always be Gwenievere. The Queen grasped the knight’s arm and pulled him aside, into one of the empty chambers.

            ‘What’s wrong with her?’ he asked instantly. Gwenievere shook her head, sending her dark hair, which she had loosed from its customary waist-long braid, flying about. The knight ached to reach out and touch her hair, and bring her closer…to kiss her and take the sadness from her eyes.

            ‘What did you say to her? Did you tell her you didn’t want the child she was carrying?’ Gwenievere asked. Her tone was soft and unaccusing, but the knight instantly felt ashamed. He dropped his eyes, unable to meet her forgiving gaze as guilt surged through him.

            ‘I did,’ he admitted. ‘I wanted to wait until we were married and settled into my manor before starting a family. Why, what does this have to do with her illness?’

            The Queen smiled sadly, ‘As you know, Nimue grew up with me in Avalon, and she is very skilled in potion making. There are certain herbs that when taken properly, can prevent pregnancy,’ she paused, looking up at Lancelet. For the first time, there was no lust, no passion for him in her eyes, just sadness and pity. He found he couldn’t stand that; he would almost prefer her to be angry with him instead.

            ‘What does this have to do with Nimue being sick?’ he asked, knowing he seemed angry. Gwenievere understood, and gently touched his shoulder.

            ‘Let me finish, love,’ she said, ‘Nimue took the herbs, but she took far too much. She miscarried the baby and has caused hemorrhaging. There is nothing the surgeon can do to stop the bleeding, and he fears she will die within an hour. She has been asking for you,’

            The knight nodded, and brushed his hand through his blue-black hair. Tears stood in his eyes, but he would be damned before he let Gwenievere see him cry. Guilt for how he had been treating Nimue for the past few weeks flooded through him. With Arthyr gone to Avalon to meet with the Lady, he and Gwenievere had spent much time together, perhaps too much time. Whenever Nimue had sent for him, or begged him to spend the night with her, he had been thinking of Gwenievere, knowing that somewhere within Camelot she waited for him, and she was all he could think of.

            ‘Go to her, say what you can to comfort her, for she is scared,’ Gwenievere said, kissing Lancelet softly. He instantly felt lust for her tighten in his stomach, and immediately the dogs of guilt began to wreak havoc on his insides. The woman he was planning to marry lay dying because of his coldness and he couldn’t help but lust for another man’s wife!

            Gwenievere smiled again, like usual, knowing what was going through his tormented mind, ‘She knows you love her. Now, go to her,’ she said, ushering him out the door. Before the knight realized what was happening, he had been pushed into the sickroom, and the door closed behind him,

            Nimue lay in her bed, the white sheets now red with blood, her chemise stained a deep red. She smiled weakly as she saw him, and he slowly approached the bed. For one who had waded knee-deep in blood and broken bodies on a battlefield, he was having a hard time forcing his legs to take him to her side.

            He knelt on the floor beside the bed, and took her hand in his, gasping at how cold it was. He pressed it to his cheek, trying to infuse her with some of his life energy.

            ‘Nimue, I am sorry for the things I said,’ he whispered, knowing his apology had come far too late to save her. She turned her face towards him and instead of the anger he expected, she wore a look of contentment.

            ‘I know you are. I was wrong to do what I did,’ she whispered. A grimace of pain crossed over her face briefly, and he could see a spasm of pain rack her body. He seized her shoulders and pulled her into his arms, pressing her face to his chest.

            ‘Nimue, please, please don’t go!’ he said, knowing his plea was futile. Her skin had the pallor of one who had passed and she was light, as if the soul that inhabited her and gave her body its life-weight had already fled.

            She coughed, and gave a long, shuddering sigh. “I love you, Lancelot. Thank you for returning to me,” she said before closing her eyes for a final time.