Page 65 of The Faerie Morgana
Braithe’s nose had started to run, and Morgana wiped it for her, then guided her to a chair. Braithe put her head into her hands and cried for another minute, then sniffled her way to an end. She mopped her eyes with the cloth and raised her head. “Sorry,” she choked.
“Nonsense.” Morgana took the cloth and moistened it again with the vial of rose water before handing it back. “Keep that on your cheek while I go kill someone.”
That made Braithe laugh, which made her nose run again. As she swabbed her face, Morgana found a fresh cloth to give her. Finally, though Braithe still hiccuped, her tears dried, and the red began to recede from her cheek, although Morgana saw there would be a bruise, probably from one of the heavy rings on the queen’s fingers. She pulled a second chair close to Braithe and laid a hand on her knee. “Tell me what happened, brat,” she growled. “And it had better be good, or there truly will be murder done this day.”
“It was not good,” Braithe said, with a watery smile. “But not murder-worthy.”
“That I will decide for myself,” Morgana said. “Now, will you tell me, or must I scry?”
“I will tell you. I had no loyalty to the queen, in any case, and now—” Braithe shook out the cloth and began to fold it, creasing and re-creasing it with her fingers. “Gwenvere is pregnant. And she doesn’t want to be.”
Morgana sat back, twining her fingers in her lap as she took this in. “And why did that prompt her to strike you?”
“I refused to ask you for something to end her pregnancy.”
Morgana raised one eyebrow. “Did she actually imagine I would give her such a thing?”
“She wanted me to tell you it was for one of the kitchen maids.”
“Ah. I might have done that.”
“But it would have meant lying to you.”
“And that you would not do.”
Braithe thrust out her round chin. “Never. Nor to the king.”
“No. You must be the most loyal of all his subjects.” Morgana reached for the bell on her table and rang it. “We need cider. Or wine.” Braithe did not argue.
A very young chambermaid knocked on the door a minute later and put her head around. “Priestess? Did you need something?” When she saw that it was Braithe sitting with Morgana, her eyes widened. “Priestess Braithe—the queen is calling for you. Did you know?”
Morgana answered for her. “She knows. We will deal with it, Esme, after you bring us something to drink. Wine, I think.”
“Right away, Priestess.” She withdrew.
Morgana stretched her long legs out in front of her. “I suppose Queen Gwenvere is working herself into a state.”
“Not the first time,” Braithe said dryly. “She does not cry, though. She curses, and stamps, and breaks things. So long as Arthur is not present!”
“I have no doubt.” The wine arrived. Morgana thanked Esme and sent her off. She poured the wine herself and lifted her cup to Braithe before taking a long, stimulating sip. “Did she say why she did not want the babe?”
“I asked. She didn’t answer.”
“It may not be Arthur’s, I suppose. Or perhaps she never intended motherhood.”
“I don’t see how she thought she could prevent it.”
“There are ways; perhaps she tried, and failed.”
“I am sorry for the maids who have to deal with her just now.”
“I am, too. Well, we will let her have her tantrum, then go together to speak to her.”
“She will know I told you.”
“She can be furious at us both.”
They found Gwenvere still in her bedchamber. One of her maids, a short, middle-aged woman with a heavy bosom, was with her. The maid gave Morgana and Braithe a look of relief at passing the burden on to them. She scurried out of the room without speaking, and without looking back at her mistress. Gwenvere, her pale hair tangling around her face, was seatedbeside her table. She had a small corked jar in her hand, and she set it on her table with a click before she turned a narrow-eyed glance on Braithe. “You betrayed me, I see.”
