Page 53 of The Faerie Morgana
“Brat, listen to me,” Morgana said. She looked stern, as if she were about to scold, though she so rarely did. “We are going, yes, and we must hasten to prepare. But—Braithe, listen. The king has requested I come to Camulod to officiate at his wedding. He has chosen a bride.”
Braithe’s breath caught with a tiny gasp. She knew her cheeks flamed, but she dropped her head so Morgana would not see the expression in her eyes. For a moment she couldn’t speak at all.
“You knew he must marry at some time,” Morgana said.
Braithe nodded. She knotted her hands together in a fold of her robe as she struggled to recover her composure. When she looked up, she saw that Morgana’s eyes were dark, with no hint of gold. “Are you angry with me?”
“No. I am sorry it still hurts you.”
“You are not angry with Arthur, either, I hope.”
Morgana moved away, to gaze out her window to the woods beyond the Temple compound. The dog roses that grew along the paths showed pink buds that would soon flower. The elder and elm trees were in full leaf, casting dappled shadows on the forest floor. “I think,” she said slowly, “that my half brother should have been the wiser one.”
Braithe blurted, her voice trembling, “But I wanted him, too! I was glad to have him, even for such a short time, and if I could have him again, I would.”
Morgana turned back to face her. “You worry me.”
“I don’t mean I expect it to happen,” Braithe said, her cheeks warming again. “I only meant—if he—”
“Perhaps I should not take you to Camulod,” Morgana said.
Braithe felt the opportunity slipping away from her, the castle receding into the distance, the royal festivities withdrawing behind closed doors. She saw her chance to be in Arthur’s presence once again fading to nothing. She clasped her hands before her, willing her voice to be steady. “Priestess. I will promise anything you like. I will not embarrass you, or do anything to embarrass the king.” She had to pause for breath. “I suppose Arthur has selected a princess for his bride, someone from the north, or perhaps a noblewoman from the Low Countries. Someone with a grand dowry and a grander pedigree!”
Braithe allowed herself to imagine a plain girl, bony maybe, with ditchwater hair, perhaps an ugly voice. Her wedding would be a duty marriage, arranged for political advantage. The poor thing would be aware she was unlovely, that only the circumstances of her birth brought her to Arthur as a bride. Braithe could be sympathetic to such a girl, show her kindness, encourage her in her new royal duties.
But Morgana was shaking her head. “I am told my half brother has chosen for love.”
“Oh.” The old pain resurged in Braithe’s breast, the pain she had done her best to suppress. He had fallen in love. Notwith her, the freckled country girl, a mere handmaid, a cottar’s daughter. He had fallen in love with someone better, a beauty. Mysterious, enchanting, a girl to drive all other maidens out of Arthur’s mind. Morgana reached out and unwound one of Braithe’s tightly clasped hands to hold it in her long fingers. “My dear brat,” she said. “I know well that you keep your promises. You are the most faithful of women, and I trust you with my life. I cannot bear to see you hurt again.”
Braithe drew a shaky breath past the stubborn knot trying to form in her throat. She swallowed, and blinked away the tears threatening to fill her eyes. Summoning her composure, she straightened her spine. “Priestess,” she said. She tried to speak firmly, but a small tremor in her voice betrayed her, and she coughed. “Priestess,” she began again. Her voice steadied, and she looked directly up into Morgana’s face. “I swear that I will behave in Camulod as a handmaid should. As a Temple maiden should.” She managed a smile, knowing Morgana had a weakness for her dimples. “But I will ask you to promise something, too.”
At that, Morgana’s stiff expression relaxed, and her lips curled a little. “The handmaid asks a promise of the priestess?”
Braithe made her smile wider, hiding the hurt still burning in her throat. “I do! And I expect you to keep it.”
Morgana squeezed her fingers and released them. “Tell me what this great promise is, brat, and I will let you know if I can make it.”
Braithe let her smile fade, because despite everything, this was a serious matter. “I want you to promise me you will not shapeshift.”
Morgana’s eyes widened, and flashes of gold sparked from them. “Braithe!”
Braithe set her chin. “It is too dangerous for you. Last time, you almost died. Lloegyr needs you, and the king needs you. Alive. Promise me.”
After a long pause, in which Braithe worried she had presumed too much on their friendship, Morgana began to chuckle. “Oh, brat,” she said. Her demeanor transformed, her expression easing into one of good humor. Her eyes were glistening pools of gold, dramatic beneath her dark brows and against the silver of her hair. “You are a brave little thing. Who else would dare to demand a vow of me?” She pointed to the chest where her extra robes and shifts were kept. “I will make your promise! Could we start packing? We have a journey to make!”
22
The boat that came from Camulod to convey the priestess and her handmaid across Ilyn was three times the size of any Braithe had seen before. There were six men to row it, as well as an armed guard in the bow and another in the stern. The two guards bowed to Morgana as they assisted her to board, and even nodded courteously to Braithe as they stowed their bags and the basket of herbs and remedies Morgana had ordered. There were actual seats instead of wooden benches, and they were offered blankets and drinks before they embarked.
Morgana behaved as if this was only her due, but Braithe was thrilled by the grandeur, taking in every detail of the padded seats, of the uniformed oarsmen, of the beautifully polished wood of the boat itself. She bounced in her seat, too excited to sit still. One of the guards, a well-muscled man not much older than herself, winked and grinned at her reaction, and she had to cover a laugh with her hand.
Niamh and Joslyn stood on the dock to see them off. Niamh looked as if she had bitten something sour, her usual expression.Joslyn glowed with pride at seeing her sister priestess escorted as if she were royalty.
But of course Morganawasroyalty. She was the daughter of a queen, the stepdaughter of a slain king, the half sister of the great King Arthur. She reclined in the seat provided for her, long legs stretched out, hands tucked into her sleeves, her strong-featured face impassive. Braithe had been inspired that morning to plait her hair high on her head, and she was proud of the way it looked, glowing like a silver crown in the early sunlight.
Niamh stood still as the oarsmen set to, but Joslyn waved and smiled. Morgana seemed not to notice, but Braithe enthusiastically waved back.
Her heart beat swiftly and happily in her breast as she reveled in the glorious spring morning, vibrant with birdsong and new growth everywhere. Even the mist that soon wrapped the boat and its occupants in silken folds of gray seemed full of promise, magical, nothing to dampen Braithe’s joy.
