Page 76 of The Faerie Morgana
He asked her once about her vow of celibacy, and when she answered he gave her a narrow-eyed glance. “That is a vow I could never take.” His words made her stomach quiver.
She was aware that with each of their meetings, he stood a little closer. It was not dramatic, and it was not rushed, but she knew that his body was deliberately, if delicately, drawing nearer to hers.
She was stunned by the reaction in herself. One night, when the first chill of autumn hung in the air, he actually sat down next to her. Her heart leaped in her throat, choking her voice. She knew little of men, aside from her half brother. There was the Blackbird, of course, but he was nothing like other men. Such a gesture as Lancelin had made probably meant nothing. Or it meant something, but she didn’t know what it was. She told herself to put it out of her mind. To put Lancelin out of her mind.
She did try, but her usual discipline failed her.
Now, with the greatest care, she made the charm for him. It wouldn’t possess the power of Arthur’s, but it would make Lancelin a slippery target, hard to see, difficult to injure. It was all she could do.
When it was finished, she decided it would be best if she sent Braithe to deliver it rather than taking it herself, but she struggled to relinquish it, and very nearly called Braithe back so she could bestow it on him with her own hands. She resisted the urge, but it was not easy. As the morning of battle approached, she stood by her window gazing at the fading stars, trying to understand what was happening to her.
30
Braithe had to wake Bran in order to learn where Sir Lancelin’s bedchamber was. She hurried down the stairs, past the lesser hall, down the corridor where the kitchen maids slept. Bran had a small room of his own just behind the kitchen. The cooks were already at work, bread put to bake and porridge simmering in the great iron pots. The ovens warmed the corridor.
The steward opened his door and blinked sleepily at her. His sparse gray hair stood up every which way from his scalp. “Is something wrong, Braithe?”
“No,” she whispered. “But Priestess Morgana asked me to deliver something to Sir Lancelin, and I don’t know where his room is.”
“Ah. The same floor as the king’s and queen’s chambers. The far end of the corridor.” He yawned. “He may still be asleep.”
“I know. Thank you, Bran.” Braithe left the steward staring curiously after her, scratching at his hair with his fingers. She climbed the stairs as quietly as she could. The courtiers who had chambers in the tower were still sleeping, but the nickers of horses and creaking wheels sounded from the other side of the keep. The war band was assembling.
She was not surprised, when Lancelin’s lackey opened his door, that the knight was already fully dressed in the blue tunic and plain leggings favored by the king, ready for his armor. The lackey held the door for her, and she took one step inside the room, which was as plainly furnished as possible while still providing the necessities. Lancelin laid down the glove he had just picked up. “Braithe, isn’t it?” he said. “One of the priestesses?”
“Braithe, yes.” She gave a small bow. “I am Priestess Morgana’s handmaid.” She held out the charm. “She sends you this, upon request of the king.”
He came to take it from her. He was much taller than she, so that she had to tilt her head up to meet his gaze. His eyes were compelling, nearly black, shining with intelligence. Braithe felt the touch of his long fingers as he accepted the charm and was reminded of the way Morgana’s felt, cool and strong and sensitive.
“You are to wear it on this thong,” she said, unwinding it from her wrist. Having to wear Gwenvere’s elaborate wrapped gowns meant she had no pocket. She gave him the thong, and he deftly threaded it through the loop at the top of the silver amulet and tied it around his neck. “Beneath your tunic, sir,” Braithe added. “Against your heart.”
He nodded and dropped the charm inside his shirt. “Is that all there is to it?”
“Yes,” she said. “Priestess Morgana prepared the herbs herself and dedicated the charm to you. It is specially charged with the power of the Lady, our patroness.”
“What does it do?”
“I am to tell you that it’s a charm of deception. The intention is that it will be difficult for the enemy to perceive you accurately. They will think you are in one place, but you are in another. They will believe your sword comes from one side, but it comes from the opposite.”
He said with appreciation, “That seems useful.”
“We believe so.”
“I would like to thank her.”
“She is resting now. When you return, you can thank her in person.” She stepped back, away from him. “Safe home, Sir Lancelin.”
He placed his hand over his tunic, just where the charm showed its outline beneath the fabric. “Tell the priestess I dedicate the coming victory to her.”
“She will be glad of it.” Braithe bent her head again and left him.
The next days were anxious ones in Camulod. The knights who had been left to defend the castle were silent, tight-jawed. When Prince Mordred wasn’t gazing out through the barred gates watching for his brother’s return, he roamed the keep, restless and anxious. He refused to work with his tutor, but he badgered the armorer to give him a real sword to practice with. Everyone was tense with waiting, the cooks and laundresses, the men working in the abattoir, the farmers who brought produce in through the farmer’s gate. Word had spread of the swelling of the Saxon ranks and the atrocities they had already committed, but no one knew what was true and what was exaggeration.
Two bands of refugees had arrived within a day of the departure of Arthur and his knights. One was a group of eight women and a dozen children, sent by the men of their hamlet to safety while they stayed behind to protect their homes and livestock. The women were tired and their children hungry, but none were injured.
The other was a single family, cottars who worked a remote bit of land, who had been awakened in the night by a trio of Saxon invaders who had abandoned their leaders in search of easy takings. They had killed the head of the family and badly wounded the eldest son. The mother, a woman of fifty years, had taken up her husband’s ancient sword and driven it through the body of the one of the Saxons, only to have one of the others cut her down as if she mattered less than a fox or a rabbit. The survivors were hollow-eyed and silent, and so grimy it took three buckets of warm water to discover what was dirt and what was blood on all of them.
Morgana and Braithe did what they could, but the eldest son of the family, who had managed to bring them to Camulod and safety, died of his wounds hours after their arrival. As they worked to care for those who were left, Morgana swore under her breath, “By the hand of the Lady, I am tempted to break my faith and curse these Saxons.”
