Page 69 of The Faerie Morgana
The evening sky was still summer pale, with only a few faint stars sparkling here and there. Everyone could see how weary the war party was, how footsore the soldiers, but they were grateful to see that there were no horses carrying corpses, and only a handful of men appeared to be injured at all. The blue war banners, bearing Arthur’s crest in black, flew proudly above the returning fighters. Arthur, as was his wont, walked with the foot soldiers while his horse carried a wounded man in its saddle.
Mordred was about to step forward to greet his brother when Gwenvere, now dressed in a floating gown of pale green, her hair flowing loose down her back, ran past him with light steps. She held out her arms to Arthur, who relinquished his horse’s rein to a stableman and went to meet her. As the king embracedthe queen, a little sigh rippled through the watching courtiers and some of the servants.
Morgana said, “At least he is unharmed, brat.”
“By the Lady’s hand. And your charm.”
“Indeed.” As Arthur turned toward his young brother to grasp his shoulder, the charm shone bright against his tunic, and Morgana admitted to a little swell of pride. The true king had returned safely once again.
The people realized, once they looked past the charming picture of the reunited king and queen, that more knights were coming through the gate. A single banner flew above their party, striped yellow and white. As the riders came forward, their leader pulled off his helmet and tucked it under his arm. His hair was long and dark, his body lean beneath his armor.
Braithe asked, “Who is that?” but Morgana didn’t know the answer.
Arthur held up his arm to ask for silence, and the murmuring and exclamations died away. “Friends of Camulod,” he said, in a carrying voice. “We have succeeded in quelling the Saxon incursion. Our casualties are few, but there were deaths among the knights from the northern demesnes who fought beside us. These men have come to join Camulod. I know you will welcome them.”
The leader of the northern force flung one long leg over his saddle and slid to the ground. He came to stand beside Arthur, inclining his head to the king. He was a head taller, long of arm and leg, solemn of countenance. His face, when he raised it, was also long, with a prominent nose and a strong jaw.
Arthur clapped the knight’s shoulder. “This is a courageous man, my friends. He fought bravely for his lord, who was tragically one of the dead. He has decided to throw his lot in with me, for which I am grateful.”
The stranger inclined his head once again and turned a grave, darkling glance out to the now-silent crowd. “I am glad to be one of you,” he said, in a deep voice that rang against the stones. “And I bring these knights with me to swell the ranks.”
“Thank you,” Arthur said. He flashed his winning smile at his people, an expression perfectly judged between gravity and pride. “Out of loss has come some good in the cause of Lloegyr. My friends, I give you Sir Lancelin.”
There were bows, murmurs of welcome, a gurgle of appreciation among the kitchen maids. Gwenvere held out her hand to Sir Lancelin, and he bowed over it. Mordred stepped forward to be introduced. The courtiers took their turns in greeting him as the stablemen led the horses away and Bran began organizing the wounded.
That was the signal that Morgana would be needed. She said, “Braithe. Please fetch my basket.” As Braithe trotted away to do her bidding, she stepped up to Bran to help him decide which of the injured needed attention first. For one suspended moment she looked away from the task to take in the new knight, this Sir Lancelin of the northern demesnes, and she wondered at the odd tremor she felt in her breast. It was not premonition. It was not fear or anxiety. What, she wondered, could that be?
28
Braithe worked at Priestess Morgana’s side through the night. They washed wounds, bandaged cuts, set three broken bones, and spread salve on two ugly burns. Morgana administered tinctures for pain and for healing and set Braithe to providing a soothing tea made from chamomile and lavender, with sprigs of lemon balm and drops of valerian. Loria labored with them, hurrying to bring fresh water, boiling it when it was needed, fetching fresh bandages. The rising sun was already glimmering on the eastern horizon as they finished. Finally, they made a circuit of the barracks to be certain the wounded fighters were resting comfortably.
Morgana sent Loria to her bed, and she and Braithe followed a moment after. “Thank the Lady no one died this night,” Morgana said. The sun was fully up as they made their weary way out to the keep and into the tower, and they felt its heat on their backs.
“They persist in calling me priestess,” Braithe said wearily. “I tire of correcting them.”
“Let them think it,” Morgana said. “Belief helps healing.”
Braithe wrinkled her nose, but she let it pass, although she felt she was deceiving the people who addressed her with such respect.
As they climbed the stairs, one of Gwenvere’s maids emerged from the queen’s bedchamber and came to intercept them. “Braithe,” she said. “The queen wants you.”
Morgana said, “Braithe needs rest now. Call one of the others.” She added, with asperity, “But not Loria, either. She also needs rest.”
She didn’t look back to see that the maid obeyed her but climbed on up the stairs. Braithe, too tired to comment, followed Morgana into her apartment, but Morgana shook her head. “Go to your bed, brat,” she said. “I need nothing but my pillow.”
Braithe nodded. She was, in fact, swaying with fatigue. There was just one detail of the past twelve hours she wondered about. “This Sir Lancelin,” she began.
“It seems the king is particularly pleased to have him in Camulod.”
“There is something about him that makes me uneasy,” Braithe admitted.
“Do you not trust him?”
“It’s not that.” Braithe yawned. “I can’t think clearly now, Priestess. We can talk about it later, when we’ve slept.”
“He is not the first knight who has chosen to serve Arthur after losing his lord.”
“I know, there’s just—I have this feeling.” She yawned again, so widely her jaw cracked.
