Page 20 of The Faerie Morgana
She leaned closer. “You will live, Arthur,” she whispered, words for his ears only. “I will cure you, or I will die trying.”
Braithe couldn’t hear what Morgana said, but the look on her face was terrifying. It was the expression of someone facingthe abyss, teetering on the edge of her own fate, and it made Braithe’s heart flutter with anxiety.
The prince’s servants were slow to follow the priestess’s orders, so Braithe went to the window herself, ripping aside the curtain to allow the nip of cold air into the stifling room. When the servants goggled at her, unsure who she was or what her authority might be, Braithe commanded, “Out!” and pointed to the door. “And for pity’s sake, someone take away that chamber pot.”
They scurried out, one maidservant having the presence of mind to seize up a bundle of soiled sheets, another putting the lid on the chamber pot and lifting it to carry away. They left only the Blackbird and Morgana and Braithe to attend the sick boy.
Man, Braithe corrected herself. Arthur had been a beautiful boy when she first saw him in the Temple. Now he was a man, or nearly so, and he seemed to her eyes to be even more beautiful than the boy she remembered. Even ill as he was, weak and helpless and in dire need of washing, she thought he must be more comely than any man in Lloegyr.
Morgana took control as if she had done this a hundred times. As she dug into her basket of herbs, she instructed Braithe to strip the sweat-stained sheets from Arthur’s body. Seeing how befouled his underclothes were, she ordered those removed, too, which Braithe did without hesitation, though her cheeks burned with embarrassment and some other, unfamiliar emotion that made her belly quiver. The Blackbird stepped to the door to call for fresh linens, and Morgana told Braithe to get someone to bring a basin of water, with soap and towels.
Braithe did as she was told, though she found herselfstrangely reluctant to leave the prince’s presence. She found a housemaid hovering in the corridor outside and decided to accompany her in the search for the washing things. It would be best, she thought, to familiarize herself with the corridors and passageways of the castle. She had a feeling they would be here for some time.
The housemaid was a thickset, middle-aged woman. As she led Braithe down the stairs and out to the washing house, she spoke of what had happened to the prince. “Took sick all at once. Terrible. One day practicing swordplay in the keep, the next too weak to leave his bed.”
“Is anyone else ill?”
“Nay, Priestess,” the woman said, shaking her head.
“I’m not—” But the woman wasn’t listening.
As she pumped water into a basin, she said, “Soap on that shelf over there, and a stack of towels beneath. Nay, no one else sick, and that’s worrisome. Betimes, one gets sick, we all do.” She shook her head as she lifted the full basin, her strong arms flexing easily with the weight. “Worrisome,” she repeated. “Don’t know what to make of it.”
The prince’s apartment already smelled better when they returned to it. Arthur had not moved since they had rolled him to one side to remove his bedding. He was so still Braithe eyed his flat stomach anxiously to be certain it still flexed with his breath. The Blackbird and Morgana between them were replacing the sheets, and when the housemaid carried in the basin, Morgana directed her to wash the prince quickly and cover him so he would not take a chill.
Braithe stood watching, the towel in her hands, experiencing an unfamiliar urge to wash Arthur’s body herself, to lave his hot skin with gentle hands, and soothe it with fresh linen when she was done.
Morgana broke into her thoughts. “Braithe, I need very hot water. Do you think you can find the kitchen?”
Braithe tore her eyes from the bed, where the maid had begun soaping the prince’s chest and belly. “Yes,” she said hoarsely. “I’m sure I can.”
“Have them boil a kettle, and bring me the whole.”
“Yes, Priestess.”
After two wrong turnings, Braithe found the vast kitchen on the lowest floor of the castle. When she explained who she was and her mission, the cook she encountered hastened to provide what she needed. “Poor lad,” she said, over and over. “Poor lad, can’t keep even a cup of broth inside him. Days now. And such a sweet lad he is! You would never know he’s a prince, he’s that kind and modest.” She wrapped a cloth carefully around the hot handle of the kettle and guided Braithe back to the staircase. “You need anything else, come back,” she insisted. “Or send Bran.”
Braithe didn’t know who Bran was. Another servant appeared out of the shadows, a giant of a young man, who insisted on taking the hot kettle from Braithe’s hands and carrying it for her up the stairs. He reiterated the cook’s promise. “I’m Marcus. You need anything, ring that bell there.” He indicated a bell pull beside the door. “Anything,” he repeated.
Braithe retrieved the kettle, careful of the burning heat of thehandle, and thanked him. He held the door for her to sidle in, then closed it behind her, inclining his head with respect as he did.
“They think I’m a priestess,” she murmured to Morgana as she set the kettle on the table. “I try to tell them, but—”
“Never mind,” Morgana said in a distracted way. “They’re worried about the king.”
“He’s not really the king yet, though, is he?” Braithe whispered.
“He will be,” Morgana said grimly. Every line of her face was rigid, and her voice had fallen to its lowest pitch. “By the hand of the Lady, he will be.”
9
Morgana did not sleep for three nights. Braithe and the servant Marcus took turns running to fetch what she needed. Braithe slept off and on in a chair in Arthur’s bedchamber, though a pallet had been made ready for her. Marcus slept in the corridor, sitting against a wall or lying flat on the floor. Morgana found him there once when she put her head out to call for something. The Blackbird brought food from the kitchens with his own hands, and insisted Morgana eat and drink, though she felt no appetite.
She had known the moment she touched Arthur how desperately ill he was. His sickness had first shown itself with terrible vomiting that came on suddenly and wouldn’t stop even when there was nothing left in his belly. Now he was clammy and weak, groaning with pain, barely able to open his eyes.
She dosed him with a poppy tincture to ease his pain, and steamed ginger to soothe his stomach. She described a recipe for a healing broth and, when it came, fed it to the prince a teaspoon at a time. While the rest of the castle slept, Morgana sat beside him, her hands on his body, her brow furrowed asshe struggled to understand what was wrong. When the others woke, she saw to it that they changed his sweat-soaked bedding again and then again, rubbing his chilly skin with her hands until fresh blankets arrived. She kept the window open day and night, adding a blanket against the nighttime chill, removing it again when the warming sunlight spilled across the bed.
By the third morning, she was both exhausted and fearful. Arthur had managed to keep down no more than half the broth she fed him, and he had not opened his eyes in a day and a night. He no longer perspired, and she knew his body had no moisture to spare. His cheeks were sunken like that of an old man. Braithe, when she looked down at him, could not hold back her tears. The Blackbird spoke less and less, and Morgana’s heart quailed, because he was right to be afraid.
