Page 106 of The Faerie Morgana
Mordred, despite his youth, rose above his own sorrow and anxiety to step into his brother’s shoes. He oversaw the funeral ceremonies for those killed in the battle, made arrangements for their families to be paid the death price, and met with the surviving knights in the council room. Bran worked tirelessly, day and night, anticipating the needs of the wounded, the requirements of the staff, managing the kitchen and the storerooms and the flow of produce through the farmer’s gate.
There was no sign of Gwenvere. If she had risen from her own bed, no one in the king’s chamber knew, and no one asked.If she was still in the castle, there was no sign of her. Lancelin had disappeared, too, and Braithe supposed he had accepted Morgana’s charge. No doubt Gwenvere, conscious or not, was no longer in Camulod. No one appeared to care.
As the sad days passed, Braithe pressed Morgana to eat and drink and saw to it that the Blackbird had a chair to sit on. She took her turn in bathing Arthur’s forehead and chafing his wrists. He did not eat, but occasionally she could persuade him to drink a bit of honeyed ale, or to swallow one of the tinctures Morgana prepared. She tried to commit the feel of his skin and the shape of his face to her memory. This was her last chance to touch him, to watch his fine features, simply to be in his presence.
Sometimes, when Morgana took her place beside the bed, Braithe went to the window to look out into the starry night. The forest and the gardens around the castle were blooming prodigiously, as if they were trying to compensate for the grimness within. Braithe thought it was a heartbreaking time to leave the world, when the flowers were in their glory and the air was sweet with spring, but perhaps in a way that was best.
She didn’t speak the stanza, but she recalled it:
Beyond the darkness, light.
Beneath the waters, earth.
After despair, hope.
Four days after the war party had borne their wounded king home to Camulod, all three of them, sitting beside Arthur’s bedin exhausted silence, finally nodded off, one by one, into a deep sleep. Darkness reigned beyond the window, and the castle was quiet.
When one of the hunting dogs suddenly began to howl from the stables, Braithe jerked awake. She saw Morgana bending over Arthur’s bed as he drew extended whistling breaths. Braithe jumped up from her chair to stand opposite as Morgana slid her long-fingered hand beneath Arthur’s tunic. She laid her palm against his chest, and his breathing quieted and slowed, bit by bit.
Braithe didn’t realize tears were slipping down her cheeks until one splashed on her hand. She looked up and saw that the Blackbird had joined them, standing at the foot of the bed. Morgana didn’t move her hand. Her eyes were closed and her head bowed. Braithe felt the intensity of the priestess’s emotions, mirrored in her own breast, reflected in the defeated slump of the Blackbird’s shoulders.
The moments between the king’s breaths grew longer and longer. Only the howling of the solitary dog broke the stillness of the night, and Braithe had the irrelevant thought that it was odd no other dog joined in.
It seemed they stood there for an eternity, holding their own breaths as they waited for the next from Arthur. Braithe guessed it must be midnight when the dog abruptly stopped his howling. Morgana, her face bleak, lifted her hand from beneath Arthur’s tunic and let it dangle limply beside her. A moment later, the door to the chamber opened and Mordred, gangly and thin and haunted-looking, stood in the doorway, looking in.
He said, in the newly deepened voice that still startled Braithe, “How does my brother?”
For answer, the Blackbird straightened and turned to the lad. “The king is dead,” he said in a gravelly voice. He bowed to Mordred. “May the new king live long and rule well.”
42
Morgana left Braithe and Loria to prepare Arthur’s body. She went to the council room for the great sword and was just taking it from its pedestal when she realized she was not alone. She heard the half-stifled sob of a heartbroken boy and turned to find Mordred huddled in a corner, his head on his knees, his hands over his head.
Morgana laid the sword on the table and crossed the room to crouch before the boy. “My lord? Can I help you in some way?”
He lowered his hands, but slowly, as he struggled for control. He had grown quickly in the past year, legs too long for his body, hands and feet seeming to belong to a bigger person. Morgana thought he must be fourteen now, or fifteen. He would be tall soon, his chest and his shoulders filling out to match the rest of him. For now, he was still mostly a boy with a tearstained face and quivering beardless chin.
He raised his wet-lashed eyes to hers. They were black as night, shining with tears. She thought he might one day be a handsome man, not that it mattered. He said tremulously,“Priestess, I don’t want to be king.” Grief was written in every line of his face and body. “Arthur is the rightful king, and I—I just want him back!” A fresh sob broke from his throat, and he dropped his face again in humiliation.
Morgana settled to her knees. In a strange way, Mordred’s raw grief was a relief to witness. She could not give in to tears, although she imagined they might ease the aching of her heart. She stayed where she was, neither speaking to nor touching the prince but not wanting him to be alone. Who was there to comfort a boy who had just become king against his inclinations, who had seen his boyhood vanish in a stroke? She was not acquainted with his teachers or his swordmaster, but she hoped they were kind. They were all he had left.
Braithe found her there, now sitting cross-legged on the floor, her eyes closed and her head resting against the wall. The prince sat next to her. His tears had dried, leaving his eyes glazed and empty. The morning sunshine glowed beyond the window with a gaiety that mocked their sorrow. No birds sang. No cattle lowed or goats bleated. No children laughed or cried. The unnatural silence of sorrow gripped the castle.
Braithe touched Morgana’s shoulder. “He’s ready, Priestess.”
Morgana opened her eyes as she straightened, and her sigh of acceptance came from deep in her body. She turned to Mordred. “My lord. You will want to come and say goodbye.”
She got to her feet, turning to the prince to wait for him. He stared up at her, awareness beginning to return to his face. Hesaid, in the voice of an older man, “Yes, of course, Priestess. Thank you.” It was as if he had grown up overnight.
Braithe led the way to the king’s bedchamber. Loria smoothed the blanket beneath Arthur’s body one more time and stood back. The Blackbird was at the foot of the bed, his head bowed, his face invisible.
Braithe heard Mordred draw a steadying breath, then watched as he stepped to his brother’s side. He put a hand on Arthur’s arm. Braithe knew it had already gone cold, but Mordred didn’t flinch from the sensation. He had found strength in himself.
He spoke as if Arthur could hear him. “You were a good brother, sir. You were an even better king. I am not the man you were, but I vow to you I will do my best.”
Braithe glanced up at Morgana, whose face was impassive but whose eyes glinted gold with emotion.
Mordred lifted his hand and stepped back from the bed. He addressed his words to the Blackbird. “I beg you will remain in Camulod, sir. To advise me.”
