Page 70 of The Faerie Morgana
“Off with you, brat. Sleep as long as you can. Latch your door so none of Gwenvere’s maids can disturb you.”
“Thank you,” Braithe said. “Good night. Or good morning.”
“Good rest,” Morgana said, and gently took Braithe’s shoulders to turn her around and guide her to the door.
Braithe did as she was told, latching her door, pulling the gauze curtain across her window in an attempt to shut out the light, then falling directly onto her bed without bothering to let down her hair or change into her nightdress. It was already warm in her bedchamber, and she needed no blanket. In moments, she sank gratefully into the sort of heavy sleep that even dreams can’t penetrate.
Morgana found sleep harder to achieve. She drew her curtain and put off her sigil and her robe to lie on her bed in her dressing gown. Her braided hair caught on the pillow beneath her shoulder, and she rose again to undo the plaits and tie her hair back with a ribbon. When she lay down again, she found her muscles twitching, her neck tight with the tension of the night. She sighed and closed her eyes, ordering herself to sleep.
She was startled, and a bit confused, to find that behind her eyelids she saw the knight Lancelin’s dark, narrow face. She hated to admit it, but Braithe was right. There was something about him. It might have been the intensity in his eyes, but he had been fighting, had seen his lord killed, had sworn fealty to a new master. It was natural he should burn with emotion. Perhaps that was what made him such a compelling figure,one that drew the eye again and again, even in the swirl of a crowded keep.
She finally fell into a restless sleep and woke a few hours later feeling as if she hadn’t slept at all. She rose, drank a glass of water and washed her face, then sat before her mirror to try to do something with her hair. She could have gone across the corridor to call Braithe, but she hoped she was still sleeping. She would dress, find some bread and fruit in the kitchen, then return to the east tower to see how the wounded men fared.
Morgana had no luck with her hair. It was so heavy and straight, so intractable, she couldn’t think how Braithe managed it. She gave it up, leaving it hanging in loose silver strands down her back as she went down the stairs. The tower was quiet, most of its residents having retired to their chambers. A kitchen maid hurried to serve her, and once she had eaten, she went out into the keep under the white midafternoon sun and walked to the barracks.
She was startled, when she stepped inside, to find Sir Lancelin seated beside one of his men, bending over him to bathe his forehead. When Morgana came near, Lancelin glanced up. He didn’t stop what he was doing, but he inclined his head. “Priestess, thank you for caring for these men last night. They’re doing remarkably well.”
“Sir Lancelin,” Morgana said. She nodded but did not incline her head. She outranked him, though she felt no inclination to emphasize that. “Is this one of your men? He has a thigh wound, as I recall, and was a bit feverish.”
“He still is. Forgive me for not standing.” His face lookedthe sort rarely given to smiling. His lips were narrow, his cheekbones prominent. His features were not handsome in themselves but somehow in combination made a commanding appearance.
Morgana said, “No need to stop what you’re doing. I will give you something for your man’s fever.” She set her basket down on a nearby bench and brought out a syrup of feverfew and lemon balm. A cup waited near a pitcher of water, and she poured a little, then measured out ten drops of the syrup. “This will help,” she said, swirling the mixture in the water, then holding it out to Lancelin.
“Thank you.” He reached for the cup, and she noticed that his fingers were nearly as long as hers but darkened by the sun, his hand ridged with muscle. He held the cup to the injured man’s mouth, supporting his head with his other hand, and something about the gesture, the tenderness of it, the respect, made Morgana draw a sudden breath. Lancelin glanced up. “Am I doing it wrong?”
“Quite the contrary, sir.” She set the little jar of syrup on the table. “He may have more every couple of hours, if he needs it. Just ten drops. Better to space it out.” She was about to move on to another bed, but she paused. “Sir Lancelin, have you slept? You look worn-out, if I may say so.”
“I couldn’t,” he said gruffly.
“I see that you worry about your men, sir, but you will be no good to them or to the king if you are exhausted.”
He lifted his gaze to hers, and she was struck anew by the intelligence and intensity in his eyes. It was a compelling look,yet somehow opaque, hiding the layers of his true self. “Have you slept, Priestess?”
“I tried,” she admitted, with a little shrug. “At least I lay on my bed for several hours.”
“Well, then.” He picked up his cloth again and wetted it before pressing it to the man’s forehead and neck. “If you will sleep, I will.” He added, without smiling but with an air of humor, “If I may say so.”
Morgana’s lips twitched, and she felt a sudden, unexpected rush of well-being. She said, before turning away, “We have a bargain, Sir Lancelin.”
“See that you keep it, Priestess Morgana.”
Braithe woke to find the sun already dipping into the west beyond the woods. She hurried to wash her face and braid her hair, to change her soiled and wrinkled robe for a fresh one, and then she ran down the stairs, sure that Morgana was working once again in the east tower.
When she reached the level of the royal apartments, she found Arthur standing just outside the door of his council chamber. He was bareheaded, not wearing his coronet, and his tunic and leggings could have belonged to any knight or even lackey. The voices of several knights came from inside the chamber. Arthur looked up when she approached, and she slowed her steps. “Sir? Are you waiting for someone?”
He answered gravely. “I am waiting for you. I heard your steps on the stairs. Will you take a moment to speak with me?”
She inclined her head. “Of course, my lord. Shall we speak here?”
“In my chambers, if you don’t mind. My man is there, but otherwise we can be alone.”
He turned toward his apartment, and she followed, reflexively touching her hair and wishing she had taken more time with it.
Arthur’s manservant nodded to her when she came in and busied himself at the far end of the room. Arthur walked restlessly to the window and looked down over the keep. Braithe stood a little way from him, her hands linked before her.
“Braithe,” he said, still gazing out into the waning afternoon. “I have many things on my mind, as I’m sure you know. We won this last battle, but more will come. Rome means to overrun us, and the Saxons see us as a source of plunder. Both are eager to enslave our people if we don’t prevent it.”
“Yes, sir,” Braithe said quietly. “Priestess Morgana and I are aware of these things.”
