Page 33 of The Faerie Morgana
“Did you see?”
“I did. Come now, sir. I will explain everything later. Right now, we need to get away.”
By the time they reached the cover of the forest, Morgana was holding nearly all of the Blackbird’s weight. She felt every one of his many years in the strain on her arm, in the ankle-jarring care she had to take so he did not stumble. The terrifying sounds of the battle pursued them, making Morgana’s skin crawl. She wished her hands were free to block her ears against the screams and cries, and, worst of all, the occasional sobs and calls for help.
They found an ancient yew with a thick trunk and roots rising from the forest floor in great curves. Morgana coaxed the Blackbird to sit on one of the roots, and made sure he had his staff to steady himself. When he was settled, leaning backagainst the trunk, she peered through the drooping branches to watch the tumult on the other side of the river. She wrapped her arms around herself, standing helpless and sick as she watched the Lloegyrian contingent crumble before the greater numbers and practiced ferocity of the Romans.
It was not long before the first of the Camulod foot soldiers, bloodied and reeling, staggered back over the bridge in flight from the debacle. Behind them, fighting bravely even as they retreated, came the knights on horseback. Morgana shuddered to realize how few were left. Too many lay on the field, wounded, at the mercy of an enemy who possessed none.
One of the missing knights was the curly-headed lad who had sparked the attack with his battle cry. She found herself reaching for the Lady’s sigil as she searched for him, before remembering that it lay among the folds of her robe, on the ground of the keep of Camulod. She searched on, finally spying his yellow horse lying on the ground, and there—“Oh, no,” she breathed. “Oh, no.”
Horse and rider were both dead. Too many Lloegyrians lay lifeless, and not enough Romans. Morgana thought of shapeshifting again so that she could see, could find out what had become of Uther, but she didn’t dare leave the Blackbird.
She was beginning to recognize the exhaustion that came with having changed her shape. Her legs were weak, and her chest ached from the hours of flying. She would have to walk back to Camulod, which she feared would take the last of her strength. At least she could make certain the Blackbird had his palfrey. It was much too far for him to walk. The little horse had regained her feet and stood trembling, reins hanging, too terrified to move.
Morgana reached out her hand to the animal, her fingers curled. She whispered, “This way, little sister. You will be safe. Come this way.”
The brown mare threw up her head. Morgana whispered again, gesturing with her beckoning fingers, “Come to me. Let us go home.”
The palfrey stared at her in confusion before, with a nervous flick of her tail, she trotted toward the woods. Morgana stepped out to meet her, gathered up her trailing rein, and led her behind the yew. It was when she glanced back over her shoulder that she caught sight of Uther at last.
He was still mounted on his tall black horse, holding it back from the entrance to the bridge as he stared in horror at the melee on the other side. His horse plunged this way and that, trying to get its rider to loosen the reins as the surviving knights galloped past. One had a wounded man across his saddle. Another one slumped forward, barely keeping his seat, and even from a distance, Morgana could see he was badly hurt. Uther watched them all go past, yanking his poor horse’s rein this way and that in an agony of indecision.
In his arrogance, he had believed that if he presented his knights with an accomplished fact, an arrangement already made, they would concede without demur. Now the false king of Camulod was staring at the destruction of his power, his ploy to secure his crown an utter failure.
As the last of the knights cleared the bridge and tried to regroup on the southern side of the river, one Roman charged across, directly to where Uther still sat, irresolute. The Romanwas huge, with greasy black hair hanging from beneath his helmet, and the emperor’s symbol on his giant shield. Uther’s horse, maddened by the smell of blood and the screams of the wounded on the other side of the river, reared high, fighting the rein. The Roman lunged at it with his sword, catching it straight in the belly. Blood sprayed everywhere, dark and evil-looking in the waning sunshine, as the horse crumpled to its knees. Uther was thrown to one side.
He struggled to his feet, his shield wavering in front of him as he groped for his own sword, but it was too late. The Roman, moving lightly despite his size, batted Uther’s shield away and stepped in to run him through.
It happened so fast, with such precision and power, that Morgana could hardly follow the action. She couldn’t restrain her involuntary cry, and the Blackbird pushed himself to his feet to look past her.
The Roman pulled his sword free, bent to wipe it on his leggings, then trotted back across the bridge to rejoin his cohort. Uther, sprawled on the ground beside his dying horse, didn’t move.
14
Braithe, walking down to the lake to ease her anxiety, spied Morgana’s black robe under the willow tree, the sigil and its thong buried in its folds, her sandals a short distance away. Her anxiety increased rather than relieved, Braithe gathered everything up in her arms and carried the bundle to Morgana’s chamber. She laid the robe out on the bed and brushed away the bits of dirt and leaves that clung to it. With care, she arranged the amulet on top and set the sandals on the floor.
She knew what this meant. She didn’t know what shape Morgana had taken, but she could guess where she had gone, and it frightened her.
Arthur had insisted on going to the top of the courtine, and Braithe had gone with him, for fear he was not as steady on his feet as he thought. He had paced the wall for hours, peering to the north, until he began to tremble with weakness, and she persuaded him to return to his bed for a time. She brought him food and drink, and promised him she would watch for the war party and bring him news the moment it came.
When she found the robe, she added her own worries toArthur’s. She had not eaten the midday meal, so she went to the kitchen for a bit of bread and cheese and carried it up to the top of the courtine. As night fell, she ran down to her chamber for a cloak, then hurried back. Soon she was joined by two kitchen maids hoping to see their sweethearts return. Not long after, others climbed up to help keep the watch. They were servants, cooks, dairymaids, the butcher: the very heart of Camulod. They spoke in low voices, so as not to drown out the sounds the returning fighters might make. There was no moon, and only starlight illumined their worried faces. Someone had brought a jar of cider, and they passed it from hand to hand, a sip for each. Braithe went down the stairs to assure herself Arthur was still sleeping, then climbed back up after adding a shawl to her cloak.
It was one of the stable lads who first heard them. The sounds were faint and sad, not the triumphant return everyone longed for. The lad hushed everyone, and they fell silent, straining their ears to hear beneath the night wind.
The horses’ hoofbeats were slow and heavy. The creak of saddle leather and the jangle of tack grew louder as the party approached. Someone from the gatehouse brought out a lantern, and moments later three more joined him. They slipped through the farmer’s gate first, to ascertain that the arrivals were, indeed, Lloegyrian, and then the main gate swung open to admit them.
Braithe pressed both hands to her mouth at the sight of them. The foot soldiers came through the gate in a ragged line, weaving with exhaustion and pain from their injuries. The mounted knights came after, but their number was greatly reduced, andseveral horses bore what were clearly lifeless bodies. There were no cheers, no calls of recognition, no ceremony at all. There were no pennants.
And where was the king? It took all too short a time for the entire band to straggle through the gate and into the keep. There was no Uther.
Braithe realized, with a jolt of alarm that dried her throat and made her stomach churn, that there was also no Blackbird. And where was Morgana?
She tried not to think about it. She took in as much as she could see in the fading starlight before she ran down the steps and into the tower to report to Arthur. She found him already up and dressed, just emerging from his bedchamber.
“Tell me, Braithe,” he said, in that oddly adult voice he had so recently acquired. “It’s bad, is it not?”
“It looks that way, my lord.”
