Page 55 of The Faerie Morgana
Morgana sensed the spurt of pain in Braithe’s breast and had to look away. She couldn’t bear to see the hurt in her handmaid’s eyes, the flush of embarrassment, the hard suspicion that Arthur had forgotten what had passed between them.
She couldn’t think what to do or say. It shocked her to think that her half brother lay with so many maids he didn’t remember them. Or did he think it mattered as little to Braithe as it evidently had to him? Should she interrupt, distract, make an excuse to prevent Braithe from having to do what he asked?
She couldn’t do it. Arthur was the one person in all the world she couldn’t countermand, the one she had sworn to serve andprotect. She couldn’t reproach him, and she was helpless before his thoughtlessness.
She pressed her palm to her sigil, lifted her chin, and started to turn to face Braithe’s misery, but Braithe spoke first. Morgana stopped with her hand poised above her breast, her lips parting in surprise.
“My lord,” Braithe said, her voice sweet and steady and warm. “Thank you for this gracious welcome. Of course I will wait upon the Lady Gwenvere.”
“She has her maids, of course, to see to her wardrobe and her hair and those things women need. I would not want you to become a lady’s maid! But I thought perhaps a Temple maiden, someone of her own age to talk with, someone who will understand the change coming to her. Someone who knows Camulod. A companion.”
Braithe bestowed a radiant smile on him, as if nothing could give her more joy than to do as he asked. “I am flattered, sir,” she said. She favored him with a flash of her deep dimples, and Morgana could only guess what it cost her. “I will do my best.”
Morgana wanted to protest, to say that she wanted Braithe by her side, needed her assistance, but of course the king’s command would take precedence.
She regarded her handmaid with respect. Braithe had assumed responsibility for this matter. She had accepted her circumstances with dignity and grace. There was nothing Morgana could add to that.
Arthur, oblivious to the undercurrents swirling through the chamber, squeezed Braithe’s fingers and released them. Hegestured to the chairs and the small table beside them, set with a tray of sweetmeats and a pitcher of cider. “Come,” he said. “You must be hungry after your voyage. Tell me how things are in the Temple. Tell me your plans for my wedding ritual, and what I must do.” Morgana, with a sidelong glance at Braithe, went to sink into a chair and pick up one of the waiting tankards.
Braithe, still with her convincing smile, followed her, and when she was seated, Morgana lifted her cup to her in salute.
Braithe responded by lifting her own cup. Only the fixedness of her gay expression betrayed her true feelings.
Braithe smiled so steadily throughout the long, festive dinner that evening that her face ached. She would have liked to dine in her own room—or not dine, as it might be, since she had no appetite at all—but she meant to maintain her pretense of good cheer no matter what it cost her. At the long table in the great hall, she was seated next to Morgana, with the king on Morgana’s other side. Braithe had an unimpeded view of his profile, as he turned often to speak to his half sister. At those moments Braithe averted her gaze for fear that what was in her heart would show in her eyes.
She longed to escape to the little bedchamber she had been given, next to Morgana’s large one, but when the dinner wound to its close, she found kitchen maids and housemaids and even the big servingman, Marcus, waiting in the corridor to welcome her back to Camulod. She was diverted by their kindness, and startled that they should remember her after nearly fouryears. They still seemed to think she was a priestess of some kind, though clearly not one of the Nine. She greeted each one of them, shook their hands, promised they would speak more in the days to come. Only then, at last, was she free to climb the stairs, close the door to her room, and drop the mask of good cheer she had worn all day.
She took off her robe and draped it over a hook. One of the housemaids had unpacked her things and laid her nightdress neatly on the bed, but Braithe ignored it for the moment. In her shift, barefoot, she went to the window to look down into the starlit keep.
It was empty now, weary servants having gone to their beds, royal guests resting in preparation for the formal welcome of Camulod’s new queen in the morning. Braithe remembered this view from when she was nursing Arthur in his illness. Her heart had been so tender then, her thoughts so innocent! It had seemed a magical time, once they knew he would recover. They had laughed together. She had told him of her childhood, and he had asked a hundred questions about what it was like to be a cottar’s daughter, to have a dozen siblings, to work the land every day. She had asked him what he dreamed of doing when he was king, and her heart had soared with happiness to hear him say, “My dearest wish is to bring peace to Lloegyr for families like yours.”
Her heart was no longer tender. It had hardened now, and it ached. The charm of this scene, with the sparkling courtine surrounding the orderly keep, the fine horses drowsing in the stables across the way, and the white towers lifting against thestars, had lost its magic for Braithe. How could it be that he had forgotten lying with her? Were there were so many such occasions in the life of a king that they weren’t worth remembering?
She would have sworn he was not that kind of king. She had expected no more from him except that he should remember. She knew him to be an honorable man, a principled one. She frowned into the night, a vague suspicion lurking at the edges of her mind, demanding to be allowed in.
Something wasn’t right. Something had happened to Arthur, something not natural. Braithe felt it in her bones, a sensation that was becoming familiar. She tried to convince herself it was just her wounded heart seeking an explanation, but the suspicion would not recede.
Braithe turned away from the window to wash her face, brush and braid her hair, to go through the quotidian tasks that were her routine. She felt as if she were watching herself from a distance, a girl preparing for bed, setting out clothes for the morning, folding back the coverlet and arranging the pillows. The girl behaved as she always did. No one watching would know how her mind spun with confusion and doubt or perceive how shaken she was. No one would realize that her world had fallen into ruin.
23
The assembled guests and servants clustered in the lesser hall after breakfast to await the appearance of the bridal party. The hall was filled with their chatter and the swish and clatter of the finery they had put on for the event. Morgana began to wish she had stayed in her own chamber. She saw several of the royal guests, purses in hand, pressing Braithe to arrange private appointments with the priestess, and poor Braithe spreading her hands as she made excuses. She knew better than to sell Morgana’s time.
It was a relief when the horns sounded from the gatehouse, and people began to crowd toward the doorway.
Bran appeared and held the door wide as two of his assistants ushered the guests out of the hall. They poured in colorful groups down the staircase to make their way out into the keep. Morgana hung back, out of the crush. Braithe, seeing, came to her.
“Are you all right, brat?” Morgana said.
Braithe said, “Of course, Priestess.”
“My half brother has asked a great deal of you.”
“It’s an honor.”
“Or an imposition,” Morgana said.
Braithe glanced up at her, and though there were shadows beneath her eyes and her cheeks were pale, her gaze was steady. “I doubt it occurs to him that he is imposing on anyone.”
