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Monologue From Knight Of Camelot

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There it was again, that spear of fiery agony settled in Perceval’s skull. This time, the screaming, blinding agony brought tears to his eyes. It was the middle of the night now, and Perceval did not want to wake Joan from her peaceful sleep, so he slid from bed as quietly as possible and tried to retrieve the chamber pot in the dark so he could vomit into it. But in his haze of fatigue and pain, he fumbled with the pot, and it clattered against the floor, waking Joan. “No, stay in bed,” he ordered, but speaking sharpened the pain and once again, he heaved into the pot. The great Sir Perceval Gales, Knight of Camelot, King Arthur’s fierce warrior, on his hands and knees, vomiting, thought Perceval with misery. If only Camelot’s enemies could …show more content…

“I have more medicine for you. And please don’t be embarrassed. You had an injury that would have killed most men. It will take time for you to heal. But you’re doing better already. Your focus is sharper and you speak with clarity. You will be well again.” “Gods I hope so.” He clutched the pot as he rode out another wave of nausea, but his stomach settled. “I want to be well by the time the babe’s born. Can I be there with you? I realize it’s not common for men to be present, but I want to be by your side.” “I’m not sure. Mary might not allow it. Besides, watching a birth is not pleasant. It’ll make your vomiting seem like nothing.” Joan collected the pot from Perceval, and went through the same motions as yesterday, leaving the chamber to empty and clean it. When she returned, she held out a glass dropper filled with medicine, and Perceval drew back. “No more valerian!” he barked. “I feel like a drugged goat most of the time.” “There’s no valerian in this.” He narrowed his eyes at her, but accepted the medicine into his mouth. It tasted different, not as strong and vile as his previous doses, so he assumed Joan told the …show more content…

He wondered how he might convince Joan to make love this morning, but realized regardless of any assurances he gave about his fitness, she would deny him. Pawl had made it clear that Perceval was to abstain from sex for at least a week, preferably two. Pawl had stated, “Such vigorous activity must be avoided. Sorry. You have my sympathy.” He glanced at Joan who lay on her side, facing him, her breathing deep and slow. He should not wake her anyway. Instead, he rolled onto his back and tried that old trick of conjuring up ugly images to lessen his arousal, like Gawain taking a drunken piss in the woods or Joan lancing an infected boil. No, he still wanted his wife. He decided to rise and use the chamber pot, hoping that might help in some way, but after he relieved himself he remained hard as ever. He’d not experienced a nagging erection like this since he’d first had them. Perceval slid back into bed, but Joan stirred. With her eyes half open, she stared down at the tented bedsheet, obviously taking in Perceval’s erection. He cleared his throat and dropped his hands into his lap. “Morning,” he muttered. “Is it?” asked Joan, her voice full of humor. “That all depends on how you answer my question.” He turned onto his side, slipped his hand beneath the bedsheet, and pulled up the bottom hem of Joan’s nightdress. “When can I bed you

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