Page 105 of The Faerie Morgana
Loria appeared and brought a chair for her to sit in. She pressed a cup of cider into Morgana’s hands and stood over her until she drank most of it. When the Blackbird returned, with Lancelin behind him, Loria nodded to them all and faded into a corner to await any instructions that might come. The Blackbird stepped aside, and Lancelin limped toward Arthur’s bed, heartbreak in every line of his lean face.
His deep voice was hoarse with fatigue and grief. “Can you help him, Priestess?”
Morgana shook her head. “I can make him more comfortable. A bit stronger.”
Lancelin’s eyes met hers. “It was a terrible battle.”
“And the outcome?”
“We drove the Romans back, at hideous cost. They will return, I fear.” He passed his hand over his eyes, as if he could erase what he had seen. When he dropped it, his features had hardened, his jaw going stiff, his eyes fierce. “I will regroup our forces. I think I can find fresh fighters in my old demesne. We must hold the western position, or the Romans will overrun us.”
“I will treat your wound.”
“It’s nothing. A scratch.” He shrugged, but she saw that the movement made him wince.
“Sit, Sir Lancelin. Remove your tunic so I can see your injury. Loria, we need more warm water.”
Lancelin gave in and did as she bid. She lifted the charm from around his neck and laid it aside. The Blackbird watchedas Morgana examined Lancelin’s wound. It was a shallow cut, the blade having just missed Lancelin’s biceps, but left untreated, it would fester. When Loria returned with a basin of water, she washed the wound, spread a paste of goldenseal on it, and bound it snugly. Loria brought a fresh tunic, and Morgana helped Lancelin to pull it on. She took up the charm and placed it around his neck once again, though the wrongness of it made her stomach clench.
When all was done, Morgana pulled a stool close so she could look directly into Lancelin’s eyes. They were red with fatigue and grief, but she had to ask him before he went to rest. “Sir Lancelin. I need to know why you were wearing a charm meant for the king.”
His face crumpled. He pressed his fingers over his eyes and one painful sob escaped him. She could almost have felt sorry for him, but her anger was greater than her sympathy. She sat waiting for him to regain control, all the while feeling the presence of the stricken king on the bed behind her as if she herself had been wounded.
In time Lancelin pulled himself together. He lifted his head, his eyes flicking briefly to the Blackbird, then meeting hers with painful frankness. “I allowed myself to be seduced. I was— It was like madness, Priestess. As if I was not in control of myself.” His voice was low but steady now. “When I begged the king’s forgiveness, he gave it freely. Then—in the battle—” He paused, his gaze still fixed on hers as if inviting her to chastise, to punish him.
“Yes? The battle?”
“We were ambushed. The Romans knew we were coming.”
“Because the queen betrayed you.”
“We didn’t know until we captured her envoy and he confessed.”
“What happened to him?”
Lancelin’s mouth hardened, and for a moment, he looked like the strong man she had once believed him to be. “He’s dead. I didn’t kill him, although I would gladly have done it if one of the other knights had not.”
“And Arthur?”
“For King Arthur, it was the last and deadliest blow from the queen he adored. He took the charm from beneath his tunic and put it around my neck before I could stop him. I would have removed it, made him take it back, but the battle was already joined, and the Romans were upon us. Arthur charged into the fray, and I could only follow.” He dropped his head, but Morgana could see his throat work as he swallowed a sob. His voice broke as he said, “I tried to protect him. I did all I knew how to do, but he—he threw himself into danger. Deliberately. Carelessly!” The sob broke through, and he coughed to try to disguise it.
Morgana turned on her stool to look up at the Blackbird. He said, not accusingly but with great sadness, “He is too young. Brave in battle, but easily deceived by a beautiful woman.”
“Can you not do anything for him?” begged Lancelin.
She stood and laid her hand on Arthur’s clammy brow. “I will do all I can.”
“What can I do to help?”
She turned her head, just enough to meet his eyes. “Get Gwenvere out of Camulod. Take her back to her father, or drop her in the lake, I care not.”
Lancelin inclined his head to her. “I will do as you ask, Priestess. Perhaps in time you will forgive me.”
She looked away from him, back to Arthur’s pale face, his whitened lips. “Perhaps,” she said. She heard the door close behind him as he left, and she whispered, “Perhaps in time I will forgive myself.”
41
Morgana and Braithe and the Blackbird kept unceasing watch beside Arthur’s bed. Loria came in and out of the chamber with food and water, emptied the chamber pot, refreshed the oil in the lamp, and brought new candles when the old ones guttered. Braithe knew it was a death watch, although no one named it so. Around them Camulod was eerily silent; even the children and the dogs were subdued and quiet. The impending tragedy hung over the castle like the densest fog of winter, heavy with grief, and with the tears soon to be shed.
