Page 61 of The Faerie Morgana
“And now, when your knights sit down to confer with you, all the seats at the table are the same. That will be coveted in itself.”She reached the big table and traced the edge of it with her fingers as he stood back, beaming. “You are a wise ruler, brother,” Morgana said. “I am proud of you.”
“Thank you.”
“You wanted to see me?”
“I did.” He gestured back toward his desk, where another chair waited across from his own. “Come, sit. Breakfast will be brought here.” He sat down and leaned back in his chair, propping his feet up on the desk, nearly upsetting an inkwell.
Morgana moved the inkwell out of the way and took her seat more sedately, both her sandaled feet firmly on the floor. A servingwoman came in with a tray laden with a basket of bread, a dish of fresh butter and one of honey, and a pitcher of cider. Arthur waved the maid off and served Morgana himself, sliding the tray toward her, pouring cider into a cup.
She watched him with a wary eye. He wanted something, of course, and was making himself as charming as he could. He could be very charming indeed, but it made her suspicious. “Tell me. I performed your marriage ritual, as you requested. What else are you going to ask of me?”
He grinned, and she saw the sweet boy’s face behind that of the handsome king. It made her want to sigh, to wave away the trappings of royalty, the implications of the perfectly round table he had ordered, and simply have time with her brother.
He said with a twinkle, “Can I not just break my fast with my sister?”
She spoke in a tart manner. “Can you just eat, brother, and not speak?”
He laughed, and reached across the desk to take her hand. “I am so glad you’re here. I like having you by my side.”
Before she could respond, the door to the room opened, and the new queen, Arthur’s bride, stood in the doorway. “There you are!” she exclaimed in her little-girl voice. Arthur released Morgana’s hand as Gwenvere picked up the skirts of yet another diaphanous Roman-style gown and tripped lightly across the room to Arthur. She inclined her head to him, then kissed his cheek. “I thought we would breakfast together!” It seemed all other thoughts fled from Arthur’s mind as he bestowed a delighted smile on his bride. Gwenvere turned her head to send a blazing green gaze at Morgana, a look utterly at odds with her girlish demeanor.
Morgana allowed her lips to curl in something that was not a smile, and she let her voice drop to its lowest register. “Good morning, my lady. As it is so late, I surmise you slept well.”
Gwenvere said only, “Do you know where my companion is? Braithe? I had to dress without her!”
Arthur said, “Surely, my love, you have a lady’s maid to assist you in dressing. Three of them, I believe.”
Morgana caught the sudden narrowing of Gwenvere’s eyes, and she felt an odd wave of heat from her, as if a fire had suddenly blazed. Arthur, she could see, did not feel it. The queen placed one slender, possessive hand on her new husband’s shoulder. “But it is Braithe, is it not, my lord, who is to teach me the ways of your castle? I want to do everything in the proper manner!”
Arthur picked up a bell from his desk and rang it. “I will have Bran send for her.”
“And is this breakfast?” Gwenvere exclaimed. She reached for a slice of the bread that had been set before Morgana and took a nibble. “I’m so hungry! What a good idea, husband.” Arthur gave her an indulgent look.
Morgana said, “I believe I will breakfast in my room. We can speak later.”
Arthur glanced up at her, briefly recalled to their conversation, but Gwenvere distracted him. “Oh, what a magnificent table that is, my lord! A perfect circle, and so big! What is it for?”
Morgana rose, ceding her seat to Arthur’s bride, and strode from the room. She didn’t want to hear her half brother’s explanation of the obvious to Gwenvere. Indeed, she didn’t want to hear Gwenvere’s voice again any sooner than she must.
Morgana had no chance to speak to Arthur again that day. She saw him several times, but never without Gwenvere clinging to his arm. Braithe came to her chamber in the evening, after a lengthy dinner Morgana had avoided, to see if she needed anything and to know of her plans.
“I had hoped to be on my way back to the Isle,” Morgana told her. “But it seems the king wants something more from me. I don’t yet know how long he means to keep me.”
“It seems he means to keep us both, Priestess.” Braithe had cast a critical eye around Morgana’s bedchamber. Then, apparently approving of its lack of disorder, she wandered to the window and stood looking down.
“The queen is happy with you, then?”
“It pleases the king to think so.”
“That is an enigmatic thing to say, brat.” Morgana went to stand beside her handmaid. The evening air was cool, but fresh and fragrant, soothing her restlessness. The moon was just rising above the east tower, casting silvery shadows across the keep. Morgana pressed a hand to her breast, surprised by a sudden sharp longing for the peace of the Isle of Apples, the rituals of the Temple. She so often felt impatient with the rites, but she thought now they would calm her mind. They might help her not to think of the Blackbird in his aerie, behaving as if she no longer existed.
“The king doesn’t see her,” Braithe said. Her voice was flat, uninflected, with none of the verve she usually displayed. “The real Gwenvere.”
“It would be the rare man who does,” Morgana said. She put her long arm around Braithe’s shoulders. “Not while she is young and fresh. But beauty fades, and dies faster if there is ugliness within.”
“I am forced to stand by and say nothing while she calls you witch,” Braithe said.
“Does she do so often?”
