Page 26 of The Faerie Morgana
She didn’t realize until she felt his warmth at her shoulder that Arthur had left his bed. She cast a swift glance at him, and her heartbeat quickened. The candlelight made his fair hair golden. His skin shone smooth and clear. The blue of his eyes turned the azure of Ilyn in summer as he watched Morgana work, then turned a confiding glance to Braithe. She smiled at him and hugged herself tighter to keep herself from touching him.
Then it was done. Morgana flicked her fingers once more at the burning candle, and its flame subsided into a puddle of beeswax. She passed the charm to Braithe, who, loosening her arms to accept the ornament, was surprised to find its surface as cool as if the candlefire had not touched it.
“Now?” she whispered to Morgana.
“Now” came the answer.
The Blackbird lifted his head to watch. Morgana stood with her hands linked before her, her brow smooth, her labors complete. Braithe turned to Arthur, first lifting her eyebrows for permission. He nodded. She looped the chain over his head and adjusted the charm on his breast. It glowed a ghostly silver in the dim light, its shape vague and impermanent and wondrous.
“You are safe now, my lord,” Braithe whispered.
He said, “I do not doubt it.” He turned to Morgana and bowed to her. “Thank you, Priestess. Sister.”
She inclined her head to him in return, then collapsed onto the nearest chair with a long sigh that whistled in her throat. Braithe hurried to her. “Priestess,” she said. “Come, you’re exhausted. You must rest.”
Morgana’s eyes were closed, but she said, “Yes. Yes.” She groped for Braithe’s hand, allowing her handmaid to pull her to her feet. “Help me to my bed, brat. I mean to sleep for a week.”
11
Morgana, once convinced that Arthur would fully recover, began to yearn for the Isle. She kept thinking of the women making the difficult journey to the lake to apply for assistance. They would brave the voyage across the water and then wait, sometimes for hours, to be admitted into the dim room where their petitions would be heard, and judged, and answered. She had been away for months, and she felt the tug of their need as a force in her breast. Camulod’s bustle irritated her, and the trivial chatter of the courtiers made her head ache. Many times she fled into the woods around the castle, searching for solitude and for peace. She often knelt on the forest floor to allow the birds and squirrels, even the occasional fox, to visit her. They soothed her restlessness and connected her to a world in which no one cared about clothes or jewels or who was bedding whom.
Summer had come gently to Lloegyr, the days warm and sweet, the nights cool and refreshing. The gardens outside the courtine burst with life, flowers becoming fruits and vegetables, roots delving deep for water to counter the heat of the sun.Morgana imagined the gardens of the Temple doing the same, and she longed to sit on the stone bench and breathe the energy of their abundance. She did not particularly miss her sister priestesses, but she would not be sorry to see Niamh again, with her sunburned face and earth-stained hands, and she would welcome a smile from Joslyn.
Braithe, she could see, felt differently. On one lovely clear day, the two of them guided Arthur down to the keep. He sat in the healing sunshine, accepting the diffident greetings of the dairymaids, the lackeys, the horsemaster, and other servants, who paused in their duties to bend the knee and stammer good wishes for his health. Braithe ran up the stairs for a hat to keep the sun from Arthur’s eyes, then back again for a cushion to soften the hard bench for him. She knelt on the ground beside him, eager for some other service she could perform. Morgana thought her eyes were painfully bright as she looked up into the prince’s face.
Braithe would not welcome their departure from the castle, and Morgana thought it would be best for her handmaid if they left very soon.
They sat for some time in a pleasant silence, watching clouds of swifts dart across the sky and a little group of children playing together. The Blackbird appeared from somewhere and lounged against the sun-warmed wall, his chin on his chest. Morgana had just drawn breath to broach the subject of returning to the Isle when a voice shrilled from outside the main gatehouse. Everyone snapped to attention as another voice called for help, then another. Several men-at-arms ran from the barbican, hands on sword hilts, ready to spring to the defense of the castle.
Someone was banging on the farmer’s gate, the narrow gate that allowed supplies to be brought into Camulod. The gatekeeper approached it warily, but when it swung open, he stood aside. The men-at-arms fell back, lowering their weapons. Morgana jumped to her feet, shading her eyes to see what was happening. The Blackbird stood beside her as tension suddenly gripped the busy keep.
A bedraggled group of people filed through the gate. They were old men, a few children, women of every age, some with babes in their arms. They looked as if they had been traveling all night. Two of the old men walked in front, and several more trailed behind the women in a valiant effort to protect them. All were hollow-eyed, exhausted, and some had tears running down their cheeks. Two of the babes wailed steadily.
Arthur pushed himself to his feet, but his legs were still unsteady. He kept a hand on the wall for support as he demanded of the nearest manservant, “Where are my father and his men?”
The servant, who Morgana thought was a kitchen worker who had been harvesting garden greens, shook his head in bewilderment. “Don’t know, my lord,” he said. “Shall I find the steward for you?”
“Yes, and quick!”
Morgana marveled at how much in command Arthur suddenly was, though still weak from his illness. Even dressed in only a loose tunic and leggings he was regal. He managed to stand very straight, and though his face was youthful, his jaw was firm and his eyes glinted with authority.
Bran, the steward, came running, and he bowed briefly to Arthur. “They’re from a village along the north fork of the Chindl, just above the bridge. The Romans sacked it, they say, though it might have been Saxons. They’re only peasants and can’t tell the difference. Whoever it was slaughtered all the men and most of the boys. These poor folk are all that’s left.”
“And the king?”
“He and his knights went south, where the scouts said the Romans were on the march.”
“We still have scouts in the barracks, do we not? Send two after the king. And gather the knights who are still here. Tell them to be ready to march.”
The steward bowed again and trotted off toward the barracks. Arthur said, “I must dress. There is work to do.”
Morgana said, “Arthur, no! You’re not strong enough yet.”
“We can’t let this go unanswered, Morgana. In my father’s absence—”
“He will return soon enough. He is still the king, and this responsibility falls to him.”
The Blackbird said, “Priestess Morgana is correct, my lord.”
