Page 75 of The Faerie Morgana
But he was the king, and he was going into battle. It was not the time to confront him, and indeed, such a time might never come. Exasperated, Morgana started for the door, saying only, “I will do what I can.” She strode from the council chamber without waiting for a response.
When Braithe appeared at her door, Morgana waved her hand in a gesture of welcome. “I could have managed on my own, but I thought you would like an evening away from your other duties.”
Braithe smiled, but it was a brittle expression, and her voice was tight. “I was glad to receive your request.”
Morgana was arranging her mortar and pestle, a small pitcher of water, and several bundles of dried herbs. She raised her eyebrows. “Has she offended you again?”
Braithe came to the table to take the scissors and the herb knife from the basket and to set a jar next to the mortar. “She hasn’t slapped me again,” she said. “But she threw a jar at Loria.”
“Was Loria hurt?”
“No. I caught it before it hit her.”
Morgana put down the pestle. “You—you what?”
“Caught it.” Braithe shrugged a little. “I don’t exactly know how. I just—I saw it flying toward Loria, and the next thing I knew, it was in my hand.”
“Braithe.” Morgana put her hands on her hips and gave her handmaid a hard look. “That is magic.”
“I don’t know. I suppose I was lucky to catch it.”
“What did the queen say?”
“She pretended it never happened. She pretends all the time, especially with the king.”
“Yes.” Morgana picked up the herb knife. “She wields such power over him. Obviously being fierce in battle is not the same as being wise with women.”
“He believes her to be as innocent as a lamb, and as sweet.” Braithe made a sour face. “I hate having to touch her. To braid her hair. To wash her.”
Morgana laid the knife down again. “I wish I could help you.”
“If I had not promised the king…”
“I could ask Niamh to order you back to the Temple,” Morgana offered.
Braithe gave her a bleak look. “Thank you, but I don’t wish to break my promise.”
“Braithe, he took advantage of you. Of your innocence. It troubles me.”
“It should not trouble you,” Braithe replied bluntly. “It doesn’t trouble me in the least. My only regret is that I broke my vow to the Temple.”
“Has he ever spoken of what was between you?”
Braithe was busy undoing the thread around one of the herb bundles. She said, without looking up, “I don’t think he remembers.”
In the past weeks, it had become a habit for Morgana to climb the stairs to the door that led out onto the courtine. She rarely attended the dinners in the great hall and was free during that time of peace to spend her evenings as she wished. She often walked to the south-facing bench to savor the sunset light over the mountains, to refresh her soul in the quiet. She had frequent visitors—a spider that emerged from a crevice between the stones; a rat with a long, curling tail and a nose that never stopped twitching; a solitary, silent little nightingale. They spoke to her, in their way. They eased her loneliness. They reminded her of her true calling, and she thanked them gravely.
Occasionally, now, another person climbed the stair to walk around the courtine. Morgana found herself waiting on the bench until dinner finished in the great hall, in case he came. It was probably not wise to encourage these visits—and so the spider had reminded her—but she couldn’t bring herself to end them.
Lancelin was as reserved as she, but the two of them grew used to conversing together as night fell over Camulod. He told her things she didn’t know about the people of Lloegyr’s northern demesnes. She learned about the quirks of their language, their traditional foods, their love of music. He didn’t say so, but she knew he missed his home. Lancelin had been fostered by his lord and had grieved his death in battle as he might have grieved that of a father.
She asked him once, “Have you no wife, Sir Lancelin?”
He had answered obliquely. “I will never wed, Priestess. I have never met a man made happy by marrying.”
She didn’t answer, but she thought it was a curious thing for a highborn Lloegyrian to say.
Morgana listened more than she spoke, but she told Lancelin of having been taken from Camulod and delivered to the Isle of Apples as a very small girl, training for the Temple from that early age. When he asked her to tell him more, memories of her hours spent with the Blackbird made her heart ache so that she couldn’t bring herself to speak of them. Instead she described the life of an acolyte, the instruction of the priestesses, the solemn beauty of the Temple itself.
