Page 32 of The Faerie Morgana
A peregrine, her body like polished pewter in the morning light, had alighted on one of the pilings. She rested there now, her wings extended for balance, her neat dark head tilting as her black gaze fixed on Morgana. She was a big bird, and her regard went straight to Morgana’s heart. “Yes,” she murmured. “Thank you, little sister. I think I must.”
Morgana loved clothing herself in the falcon’s body. Her clothes dropped in a little mound beneath a long-branched willow, and she was free. She left her fatigue behind her as she lifted fromthe ground and flew up into the young morning. She looked down to admire the sparkling walls of Camulod, the fertile gardens rolling down the hillside, the great promontory of rock that was the castle’s base, then looked up and out, to the wide, beckoning sky. Joyously, she circled above Ilyn, where the water shimmered with morning light.
She tilted her wings and darted after the war party. She could fly far faster than any of them could ride, and in moments she was gliding on the wind currents, the peregrine leading her. The ease of it, the exhilaration of the movement, tempted her away from her purpose.
But she had not taken on this body for pleasure. She had a mission to fulfill.
For the riders and foot soldiers, the journey into the north took half the day. Morgana and her guide could have flown it in an hour, but they slowed their progress, circling above the war party with its fluttering banners and jutting spears. She spotted the Blackbird, trailing behind on a fat brown palfrey that struggled to keep up with the warhorses. Even the foot soldiers moved faster, though she saw the Blackbird kick his feet, urging the little mare forward. Occasionally the two falcons alighted in a tree to rest, then rose again to keep the war party in sight. They spied the north fork of the Chindl, and the ancient stone bridge that spanned it, before the king’s band could see it. Beyond the bridge, past the ruins of the destroyed village, the Roman encampment spread across an open meadow. From her vantage point, Morgana could see the scattering of cookfires, the tidy lines of the latrines, the beginnings of a fortificationbuilt of river stones and timber from the forest beyond. The soldiers who weren’t working appeared to be relaxing around the fires or inside their tents, but there were guards on alert at the perimeter of the camp. When they raised the alarm, the soldiers would be swift in their preparations. The Romans were known to be as organized as they were fierce, and ruthless in their dealings with subjugated people.
Morgana swore to herself that Camulod would not be subjugated. Lloegyr was not Uther’s gift, to hand to the conquerors in exchange for preserving his power. Only the true king would protect his people no matter the cost to himself.
When the moment came, it was as dramatic as Morgana had expected. A horn sounded. The sleepy camp was instantly alert. Armor appeared, and swords were slung on. Spears flashed in the hands of fighters. They pulled on helmets and strapped on their studded sandals. In what seemed like only moments, a phalanx of fighters marched through the ruined village and assumed a semicircle position at the end of the bridge.
Uther’s band heard the horn and rushed forward. The hoofbeats of their horses rang against the earth, so loudly that even Morgana, high above the scene, could hear them. She circled, her bird’s heart beating fast, her spread wings trembling with dread.
Uther threw up his gauntleted hand when they reached the bridge, and his knights reined in their plunging horses. Plumes of yellow dust rose around them, obscuring the scene, but the shouted orders pierced the clouds, carrying into the sky. In moments the dust began to settle, revealing the knights of Camulod, swords drawn, lined up facing the bridge. The footsoldiers ranged behind them, standing tense and straddle-legged, bows at the ready, arrows nocked. Morgana mourned the savage order of it, the painful beauty of young men risking their lives for a cause.
The Roman warriors poised in perfect formation at the opposite end of the bridge, spears and swords catching the light. She supposed there were people who feared for those men, too, parents and wives and siblings who dreaded terrible news from the north.
The Blackbird urged his palfrey forward, ready to translate. Morgana felt a spurt of anxiety for him as she saw the centurion of the Roman cohort stride past his soldiers to the middle of the bridge. The emblem of the empire was emblazoned on his shield and on the forward panel of his armor. He unsheathed his sword and raised it high, shouting something in Latin.
Uther waved a hand at the Blackbird, who kicked his little mare’s ribs to urge her closer. Morgana circled lower, trying to hear, but the Blackbird’s frail voice wasn’t strong enough to rise above the noise of the river and the whistle of the wind through her own wings. It was clear, though, that the centurion and Uther, through the Blackbird’s translation, were communicating.
Uther’s knights and foot soldiers moved restlessly, glancing at each other in eagerness and fear. The Romans brandished their spears, a clear warning to the Lloegyrians of their willingness to maim and murder. The ruined village behind them still smoked where the invaders had burned the peasants’ huts to the ground, and corpses lay crumpled in a gruesome pile, left to rotby the men who had slaughtered them. It was a visual reminder of how pitiless the attack had been. Misery and tension rose from the scene like a cloud, tingeing the air with the turgid energy of more looming bloodshed.
What happened next was clearer through a falcon’s eyes than it could have been to those of the men on the ground. Uther gave a short, loud speech, then turned to the Blackbird to translate. The shocked recoil of the knights behind him revealed that he had not consulted with them, had not warned them of what he meant to do. Before the Blackbird had a chance to draw breath, one of the knights, a young one on a yellow horse, with a head of such fair curls that he looked like a Saxon, threw back his head and howled a battle cry. Uther, startled, turned to see who had interrupted. The rest of the knights seized the broken moment to surge forward, past their traitor king, their mounts galloping two by two over the stone bridge to engage the Romans.
One of the knights’ horses struck the Blackbird’s palfrey with an errant hoof, and the little horse fell to its knees, toppling the Blackbird even as the battle at the far side of the bridge began in earnest. He staggered to his feet, leaning on his staff. The foot soldiers swarmed forward, surrounding Uther, then leaving him behind. Screams of fury and pain and hate swirled around the battle, now fully joined. Swords clashed and spears rained down on the foot soldiers.
The Lloegyrians were vastly outnumbered. Uther’s plan to surrender had meant that didn’t matter, but the will of a people to remain free was stronger than his slow-witted ambition.
Morgana put back her wings and plummeted toward the ground. Her talons dug into the earth beside the Blackbird, who was tottering toward Uther, into the danger, as if the fall had confounded him. With a flap of her wings and a stretching of her neck, Morgana began to grow into her own body.
Her own naked body.
She cried, “Sir! Not that way! Come with me!”
Shakily, he turned and saw her. Though Uther was at the bridge, futilely shouting at his warriors to stop, to listen, to let him explain, the Blackbird hobbled toward Morgana, his head up, his beard quivering with shock.
“Morgana!” he croaked.
She could barely hear him over the tumult of the fight taking place, and her belly quaked at the thought of the blood being spilled, the young men being wounded, maimed, murdered. She strode toward the Blackbird to give him her hand, to lead him away from the peril of the rout that was sure to be the end of this misadventure.
As she reached him, he exclaimed, “Morgana! Cover yourself!”
She glanced down, startled at the sight of her bare white flesh, her long arms and legs and small breasts exposed to the summer sun. She remembered, belatedly, the pile of her clothes under the willow tree. Before she could explain, the Blackbird had stripped off his own worn brown robe and was wrapping it around her, leaving him wearing only his undertunic and his leather sandals.
He took her proffered arm, but he stared at her in wonder asthey struggled toward the safety of the woods. “How did you come to be here?” he cried, but weakly. “Where are your clothes?”
“Lying on the ground beside Ilyn,” she snapped, as she tugged him forward. “Please, sir. The Romans—”
“Do you know what he said? Uther?”
“I have a good idea.” She put her arm around his back and urged him to walk faster.
“He was going to surrender! I didn’t have the opportunity to translate, but the Roman centurion—he knew! It was planned, Morgana! Uther—he was going to hand Lloegyr to the Romans to—” He broke off, gasping for breath.
“I know,” she said grimly.
