Page 66 of The Faerie Morgana
“Call it what you will, my lady. I am a maiden of the Lady’s Temple. We do not lie.”
“Then my husband chose poorly when he selected you as my companion.”
“Lady Gwenvere,” Morgana said, letting her deep voice resound against the stone walls. “You owe Braithe an apology.”
“I never apologize.”
“Noted. And Braithe never lies. Do not ask it of her again.”
Gwenvere rose slowly, her eyes on Morgana. “The queen of Lloegyr does not take orders from a witch.”
Braithe sucked in a noisy breath. Morgana lifted a finger to advise patience. She spoke to Gwenvere with deliberate weight to her words. “I am no mere witch. I am a priestess of the Temple, who demands the respect due to one of the Nine. Surely, my lady, even in the western demesnes, you know this.”
“Leave me,” Gwenvere ordered. “Both of you.”
Morgana pointed her long forefinger at the table. “What is in that jar?”
“That is none of your affair.”
“Anything that affects the king is my affair.”
“I will speak to Arthur about your behavior!”
“I think you will not, Gwenvere,” Morgana said. She kept her tone light. “I am confident you do not want your husband knowing what you intend to do.”
Gwenvere spun away, her dressing gown swirling around herslender legs. She stood before the window, her hands on her hips. “Get out!” she cried, without looking back. “Both of you! Out!”
Morgana nodded to Braithe, who raised her eyebrows. Morgana took up the corked jar from the table, and then, gesturing to Braithe to precede her, she led the way out of the queen’s bedchamber.
They paused just outside the closed door to enjoy Gwenvere’s screech of horror when she realized the jar was gone.
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King Arthur had been absent three days when Queen Gwenvere took to her bed with pains in her belly that made her wail for respite. Braithe had not visited the queen once since Gwenvere struck her, but one of the maids came in search of her, begging her to apply to the priestess for something to alleviate the queen’s misery.
Braithe made the maid come with her to see Morgana. Morgana heard them in the corridor outside her door, the maid sniveling, saying she was terrified of the witch. Morgana couldn’t hear Braithe’s response, but a moment later there was a knock on her door, and Braithe put her head in. “Priestess, one of the queen’s maids has come begging aid for her mistress.”
“To stop her whining?”
“To ease her pain, she says.”
Behind her, Morgana glimpsed the maid, the same middle-aged, heavy-bosomed maid she had met in the queen’s chamber. She leaned back in her chair. “Tell her to come in, brat.”
“She is afraid of you.” Braithe’s dimples flashed.
“As she should be.” Morgana folded her arms and regarded the hapless woman. “What are you called?”
“L-L-Loria,” the maid stammered.
“Well, Loria, you had better find the courage to come in and tell me about your mistress’s trouble.”
Morgana knew perfectly well what the trouble was, and so did Braithe. Indeed, any who lived in the western tower had heard Gwenvere’s cries. Morgana had said to Braithe that she hoped not to be present when the queen actually gave birth.
Gwenvere had found someone to give her what she wanted, and now she was paying for it. If Morgana had given her a potion, she would have suffered far less, but Morgana experienced no remorse and felt no sympathy. Gwenvere was a queen. She was a king’s wife, and she should be proud to bear his child. It was her duty. She certainly contributed nothing else to the good of the kingdom.
Loria crept through the door, her shoulders hunched as if she feared the priestess might bring a spell down on her head at any moment. When she was inside and Braithe had closed the door, Loria’s gaze darted around the room, and she seemed surprised that it looked very much like any other bedchamber in the tower except for the herbs and jars and mortar and pestle crowding the worktable.
Morgana saw that Loria, in her ignorance, was truly frightened, and she relented. “Come now, Loria,” she said. “Would you like something to drink? Cider or water?”
