Page 22 of The Faerie Morgana
He led the way out into the corridor, but Morgana paused in the doorway. “Braithe,” she said in a low tone. “Bar the door until we return.”
The chill of fear prickled across Braithe’s shoulders. “Yes, Priestess,” she said. Her voice shook, but only a little, and she made herself cross the room with strong steps. Once Morgana had joined the Blackbird in the corridor, she lifted the heavy drawbar and pushed it into its slots. When she was certain itwas secure, she hurried back to the bed and pressed the back of her hand to Arthur’s cheek. His skin was so cold she laid her other hand on his chest to assure herself his heart still beat.
She pulled an extra blanket over his still form before she dipped the sponge into the basin of water, wrung it out, and dabbed carefully at his forehead and cheeks. She repeated the process, working her way down his throat, and then, folding back the top of the blanket, his chest. Her hands trembled, and she told herself it was fear for him, but some part of her—her heart or her belly—knew that wasn’t true. It was excitement that made her hands shake and her throat go dry.
Braithe was fifteen, and she had never, since her brother left her on the shore of the Isle of Apples, been alone with a man. She had heard some of the other acolytes whispering and giggling over stories of boys they had seen rowing the boats that plied the lake. All acolytes were required to vow never to lie with a man. It was part of the price of admission to the Temple, but they were young, and the healthy fire of interest and desire flowed in their veins despite the oath they had sworn.
Braithe had never given a thought to any man until the day she first saw Arthur of Camulod. Morgana’s half brother. The true king.
The fairest man in Lloegyr.
She dampened her sponge again, caressed Arthur’s smooth chest with it, then pulled the blanket up to his chin. She gazed down at his face, her heart full of longing, her imagination running wild despite everything. She was just a handmaid, a girl of no family, and of no means except what the Temple provided,but dreams were hard to extinguish, even waking ones. In her dreams she could stand beside Arthur of Camulod as an equal. As a princess.
She turned away from his bed to look in the mirror over his washstand, seeing the freckled country girl looking back, and remembering how foolish such fantasies were.
Uther and his wife Morgause were waiting when Morgana and the Blackbird came into the castle from the keep, Morgana carrying a basket that held the roots and rhizomes of elf dock. Uther was a big man, not tall, but broad of shoulder and heavily muscled. He had small yellow teeth that seemed at odds with the size of his body. He was known for his animal appetites, and Morgana could smell the lingering taint of lust on him, as if he had doused himself in some foul perfume. He was known to keep concubines near at hand, despite having taken a second wife.
Morgause was whip-thin and as dark as Morgana herself, though not nearly as tall. It was said she had been pretty when Uther married her, but her looks had faded swiftly after she gave birth to a son, Arthur’s little half brother Mordred. Morgana had not yet seen the babe. She supposed she was related to him in some obscure way.
The Blackbird inclined his head to the royals. “My lord. My lady.”
Morgana said nothing, nor did she bow her head. When she gazed at Uther, she thought of his part in the death of her mother, and now, the poisoning of Arthur.
Uther said, “How does my son fare? I came to thank my stepdaughter for nursing him.”
Revulsion turned Morgana’s stomach. Uther had repelled her even when she was small, with his bristly red hair and rust-colored eyelashes. Even then she had disliked his smell, though she was too young to know what it was. He had tried to take her on his lap once, and she had fled the room. She doubted he recalled the moment, but it was her curse to forget nothing.
“Your son will recover,” she said coldly. “I will see to it.”
“I am so grateful, Priestess,” Uther said. He smiled at her, showing his small yellow teeth. She did not smile in return. He pretended not to notice, but the skin around his eyes tightened. Morgause looked on with a fixed expression on her face, saying nothing.
The Blackbird spoke in his laconic way. “We had best return to his side, my lord. We will send the priestess’s handmaid with news.” He inclined his head again and put his hand under Morgana’s elbow to urge her toward the stairs. She was tempted to rip her arm free, to face Uther with her accusation, but she felt the pressure of the Blackbird’s fingers persuading her to hold her peace.
She walked beside him, as he wished, leaving the king staring after them as they climbed. It was a relief to Morgana when they reached the landing and moved out of Uther’s sight. She knew she had been rude. It was the first time she had spoken to her stepfather since she arrived.
“You could at least bow to the king,” the Blackbird said, without heat.
“Or I could stab him with my foraging knife, but that I thought you would not like that, sir.”
The Blackbird’s beard twitched, and she felt a bit easier.
Braithe removed the bar across the door when they announced themselves, then went back to fussing with the prince’s bedding, adjusting his pillow. He hadn’t stirred.
Morgana set to work immediately. She chopped the elf dock root with her foraging knife and set the rhizomes to soak in water as hot as Braithe could make it. She forgot all about her stepfather as she pounded the root into a paste. She smeared it on Arthur’s chest and belly, then ground the soaked rhizomes to make a tincture. This she fed to him, slipping a few drops between his slack lips every few minutes.
More importantly, once he had consumed a good amount of the tincture, and the paste on his skin had begun to soak in, she knelt beside the bed. She bent her head, closed her eyes, and concentrated. She willed her remedies to work swiftly, more quickly than was natural or even reasonable. She pictured Arthur’s stomach quieting, his blood warming, his breath deepening. Her forehead creased, and she put her palm to it to smooth the furrow away. She matched her own breathing to her half brother’s and felt the burning in his stomach ease, the stubbornness of his blood release, the stiffness of his lungs relax.
She lost herself in the process, unaware of the hard floor against her knees, the ache gripping her neck, the emptiness of her own stomach. She was not herself. She was Arthur. She was Arthur strengthened with her strength, renewed with herhealth. If she had spoken, it would have been Arthur’s voice that came from her lips. If she had opened her eyes, they would have been the sky blue of his eyes. Even her hair felt as if it were lighter, finer, as fair as Arthur’s rather than her own dark and heavy ebony.
“Priestess!” Braithe whispered.
Morgana started. Her eyes flew open as she jolted back into her own body, and she saw that Arthur’s eyes had also opened and were gazing up at Braithe, who still leaned over the bed.
“Am I dead?” he murmured.
Braithe’s smile in answer was incandescent. “No, my lord,” Braithe said, with such joy it gave Morgana a quiver of unease. “You live, just as the priestess promised!”
Morgana forced herself to her feet, ignoring the pain that shot through her knees. “It is true, brother. The danger is past.” His gaze shifted to hers, and he gave her a pale smile. When Arthur started to push himself up, she laid a hand on his shoulder and pressed him gently back onto his pillow. “You will be here in your bed for a time still.”
