Page 57 of The Faerie Morgana
Bran ushered the four of them inside the hall, then closed the doors behind them, remaining outside on the landing. Morgana saw that the long table in the center of the hall was already set with baskets of bread and platters of fruit and vegetables. The meats would be carried up from the kitchen when the feast began.
Arthur led Gwenvere to the dais opposite the window, where a chair had been set beside the big one he always used. As she settled herself, her beautiful gown pooling at her feet, he stood beaming at Morgana and Braithe. “Come, sister, and you, too, Braithe. I wanted you to meet the Lady Gwenvere in private.”
It was odd, meeting Gwenvere’s green gaze. Her expression was guileless, her lips curving in a pleasant smile, her head tilted just so, in a practiced manner. Her hair was such a pale color it nearly matched Morgana’s own silver, and the intricacy of her plaits must have taken her maid hours to achieve. But her eyes, that fresh green beneath long pale lashes, spoke of something else to Morgana, something her deep sight could not yet divine.
But perhaps she was prejudiced. She had spilled the stones last night, but their message had been opaque, giving her no insight. It was not like her to fail in such a way. She had supposed she was distracted by her worry about Braithe, but now, facing the lady, she wished she had tried harder.
Gwenvere inclined her head to Morgana and spoke for the first time. “Priestess,” she said in a light voice, its pitch high and breathy, like that of a much younger woman. “I am delighted to meet the king’s half sister.”
“Well met, Lady Gwenvere,” Morgana said. She did not bowher head, and she saw Gwenvere’s eyes widen at this omission, ever so slightly. Perhaps no one had explained to her Morgana’s position as one of the Nine. Did the green of her eyes darken to a deeper shade? Morgana wasn’t certain.
Arthur appeared not to notice. “And this,” he said, beckoning to Braithe, “is your new companion. She is called Braithe, and she knows Camulod well. She will help you learn your way about.”
Braithe stepped forward. She bowed to Gwenvere, a well-judged depth that any courtier could have been proud of. “Welcome to Camulod, my lady.”
Gwenvere turned to Arthur. “A companion? Is that necessary?”
Morgana heard her think, as clearly as if she had said it aloud,Too pretty.
Arthur said, “I thought you would like to have someone congenial to assist you as you settle in.”
Aloud, Gwenvere said, “So thoughtful, my lord.” She turned back to Braithe. “I hope you’re good with hair.”
Arthur drew breath to explain, but Braithe forestalled him with the poise and diplomacy of someone far older than herself. “I am, my lady, and I will dress your hair if you wish it. That will be a pleasant occupation while we get to know one another.”
It was obvious to Morgana that Gwenvere had not intended any such thing, but Arthur merely beamed at Braithe, pleased at the success of his plan. Braithe smiled back, as if in agreement.
Bran knocked once on the door to the hall, then peered around it. “My lord? The servants are ready to bring in the meats.”
Arthur nodded and turned to Gwenvere. “Come and sit at the table.”
“Thank you, my lord,” she answered. She rose, but as she took a step forward to move down from the dais, her slipper caught in a fold of her long gown. Arthur had already turned away to pull out her chair at the table. Gwenvere’s foot slipped on the slick fabric of her dress and she began to topple.
Morgana and Braithe were out of reach. Without time to think, Morgana threw up her hand, palm out, long fingers stretched wide.
As if she had been standing right next to the dais, as if her hand had caught the girl’s elbow, Gwenvere was thrust upright. Her foot was still off the floor, tangled in her dress, but she did not fall.
Braithe jumped forward and bent to untangle the material from her slipper. Above her head, the Lady Gwenvere stared at Priestess Morgana, her eyes brilliant with what Morgana could have sworn was malice.
“Was that witchcraft?” Gwenvere murmured, so softly only Braithe and Morgana would hear. “I have heard of Arthur’s sister, Morgana the witch! Now I see the stories are true.”
Morgana held Gwenvere’s gaze for a pregnant moment, golden cat eyes meeting amused green ones, then spun about in a swirl of her own properly hemmed skirts and left the hall.
Braithe would have liked to follow Morgana out, but she found herself having to explain to Arthur why his sister had left thehall before the banquet began. She felt Gwenvere’s gaze on her as she fabricated a reason, something to do with a message from the Temple. When she turned from speaking to the king, to go to her own seat at the already crowded banquet table, Gwenvere gestured to her.
In her little-girl voice, Gwenvere said, “Oh, Braithe! Do sit beside me, won’t you? I know no one at this table but you and the king!”
Arthur smiled at them both. The woman seated in the chair beside Gwenvere’s scowled at Braithe when asked to move, but when Gwenvere herself gave her a pleading look, she swiftly acquiesced, smiling and bowing, all forgiven.
Braithe could see that most of the courtiers were affected by the Lady Gwenvere’s charm. She had no need to speak. Every lady present, save Braithe, was imagining herself as beautiful, as favored, as fortunate as the Lady Gwenvere. Every man pictured himself in Arthur’s place, with a lovely young bride in whose eyes he was reflected as a hero. Everyone strove to be the recipient of that shy, flattering smile. It was a trick Gwenvere had perfected, the way she looked into people’s eyes, tilted her head, made them feel as if each one of them was the special one, worthy of her attention.
Arthur was no less under Gwenvere’s spell than anyone else in the room. Indeed, he could hardly take his eyes from her, or keep his fingers from grazing her arm, touching her hand, caressing her waist beneath her gown.
Braithe remembered the way those fingers felt. She had pulled off her shift to feel them on her bare skin, and she wouldnever forget the cascade of sensations his touch caused. Seeing his muscled shoulders and strong hands, the clear line of his jaw, reminded her of every moment of the night they had spent together.
And now it would be Gwenvere to lie with him, to experience that intimacy that had so thrilled Braithe, that she had relived a thousand times.
Curiously, Braithe felt no envy. She still loved Arthur the man. She supposed she would always love him. And he was going to need her. She sensed it, though she didn’t understand it. There was deception here, and danger.
