Page 64 of The Faerie Morgana
Braithe stared at her. “To put an end to—to what, my lady?”
Gwenvere flashed her a glance from her reddened eyes. “What do you think? You may be slow, but you’re not stupid!”
Understanding broke over Braithe, and she caught a breath. “Oh. Oh!” She spread her hands and made herself smile. “But, my lady, if you’re breeding, that’s wonderful news! The king must be delighted!”
“The king doesn’t know, and he’s not going to,” Gwenveresaid sourly. “And you’re not to tell him, either, or I’ll have you sent to work in the abattoir.” She pulled her wrinkled dressing gown closer around her. “My mother had something, a potion or some such, to make a situation like this go away. I need you to tell that witch-priestess of yours that one of the maids has got herself in trouble and needs something like that.”
Braithe said, “Priestess Morgana is no witch, my lady.”
“Don’t argue with me! It’s perfectly obvious. Even Arthur sees it.”
Braithe’s temper began to rise, and she felt its heat in her cheeks. “He would never say that. She is his sister.”
“Half sister! Half witch, if you ask me! I don’t trust her, but I need this potion.”
Braithe’s anger grew. Against her better judgment, she spoke her true thoughts. “You’re the queen, are you not, my lady? Providing Lloegyr an heir is your job.”
“I don’t need you to tell me my job,” Gwenvere snapped. “I need you to do as I say, and be quick about it. I want this over with before Arthur returns.”
“Why, my lady?”
“I have no need to explain myself to you!”
“The priestess will never agree to such a thing without a consultation.”
“Consultation! Have you not just said she is no mage?”
Braithe’s temper burned hotter, and she felt the curl of her lip as she said, “Is it a mage you require? Shall I call the Blackbird?”
No one except the king spoke to the Blackbird without an invitation. Everyone feared he would curse them if theyoffended him. Morgana had assured Braithe that there was no truth to that superstition, but it suited the Blackbird to have people believe he was dangerous. It was a gibe, and Gwenvere knew it.
She took a step toward Braithe. “How dare you?” she snarled, her voice so like a snake’s Braithe almost tripped in her haste to move back. Gwenvere pressed forward, leaning close enough to breathe sour air over Braithe’s face. “Tell your witch-priestess one of the maids needs this potion, and she needs it now. Go!”
It was the sort of command Braithe knew the queen’s maids could not resist. Gwenvere’s fury was as intense as a physical blow, hot and hard and demanding. But, Braithe told herself, she was a maiden of the Temple. She might not be a priestess, but she was not a servant, nor was she any longer a simple cottar’s daughter. She would not back away another step. She braced herself, folding her arms and setting her feet, and said flatly, “I will not.” Her heart thudded and her blood sang in her ears, but she held her ground. “I will not betray King Arthur in such a way, nor will the priestess Morgana. I can promise you that. The answer is no.”
“You can’t say no to me! You—you are—”
Braithe lifted her chin, holding the queen’s gaze with her own.
When the queen’s temper flared and broke, everything about her changed. Her green eyes darkened to the color of dried moss. The skin around her mouth pulled tight, creating lines in her cheeks like those of an old woman. Her fury made her pant, as openmouthed and wet-lipped as an animal.
All at once, Braithe recognized her. This was the real Gwenvere. This was the woman Braithe had seen that first day, hiding behind the illusion of beauty and grace.
Then, before Braithe understood what she was going to do, Gwenvere pulled back her arm, and with all her strength, grunting with the effort, she slapped Braithe full in the face.
Braithe stumbled and nearly fell. She righted herself and stood staring at the queen, her anger quenched by shock. No one had ever struck her before, not even when she was little and quarreling with her sisters and brothers.
Gwenvere stared back, blinking, breathing hard. The chimera of beauty and youth returned as she panted, her eyes resuming their brilliant green, her cheeks smoothing, her lips full and tender. Braithe watched the transformation with wide eyes, one hand cupping her burning cheek, fury burning in her throat.
It was the end of her service to Gwenvere, no matter what Arthur wanted. There was no going back from this moment. She was done.
Braithe spun about and slammed out of the queen’s apartment, not caring how the door jarred against the jamb. Gwenvere screamed after her, but Braithe didn’t slow her steps. She picked up her skirts and dashed straight up the stairs to Morgana’s bedchamber.
Morgana was pounding willow bark with a mallet at her table, preparing a tincture for the aches and pains that inevitably cameto her door. She heard the flying footsteps coming up the stairs and set down her mallet.
Her handmaid burst through the door, saying, “I will not serve her anymore!” before bursting into noisy tears.
“Braithe!” Morgana hurried to shut the door, then turned to see what was the matter. What she saw made her gasp and hurry to her table for a cloth to dampen in rose water. “Who struck you?” Braithe was sobbing too hard to answer. Morgana pressed the cool cloth to her flaming cheek, where the handprint was clearly visible, outlined in red, the skin around it whitened with pain. “Gwenvere did this?”
