Mists of Avalon - Marion Zimmer Bradley [519]
“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 cannot—” 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 .