Page 68 of The Faerie Morgana
“You will not. It was your own fault, a foolish thing to do.”
Gwenvere scowled at her, but when Morgana spooned up some of the tincture, Gwenvere swallowed it. “More!” she demanded.
“Yes, in a moment. Then you must space out the doses, every hour or so.” Morgana waited a short while, then gave the queen another spoonful.
As Morgana replaced the cork in the jar, Gwenvere straightened. She began to breathe more slowly, and the lines eased from her face. She looked down at herself. “I should dress. Call Braithe to me.”
“I will not do that.”
The Lady Gwenvere seemed to shift back into her public persona, all at once. The contrast between her angry state and this one was so sharp, so complete, that it was not unlike shapeshifting. She looked up at Morgana, her eyes now clear green, wide and innocent. “But why?” she said, in that delicate, high-pitched voice she used when people were about. More specifically, when men were about.
Morgana ignored the question. “I will call Loria back, but first, one more spoonful of tincture. It seems your bleeding has stopped.”
Gwenvere took the spoon Morgana held out and swallowed its contents. She took a deep breath, and then another, one hand on her belly, the other pushing her sweat-dampened hair out of her face.
“Is your pain better?”
“A little.”
“You will want to wash,” Morgana said.
“I need Braithe to help me.”
“Braithe is no longer available,” Morgana said. She walked to the door. Loria was waiting in the corridor, her forehead creased with anxiety. Morgana beckoned to her, and the maid sidled in, her head down. “The queen needs a bath,” Morgana said. “And fresh clothes.”
“And take that thing away,” Gwenvere said, pointing to the bloodstained dressing gown. “The chamber pot, too. I don’t want the king to see it. To know that I miscarried,” she added. She pressed a slender hand to her heart and bestowed a tearful gaze on Morgana. “He would be heartbroken.”
Morgana folded her arms. “True. What you have done would break his heart.”
There was a flash in Gwenvere’s eyes, a reminder of her recent fury. “You will not tell him.”
“I will not, not because I obey your orders—which I do not, and never will—but because my brother has more important things to worry about than to try to understand why the wife he adores would do such a thing.”
Gwenvere tilted her head, giving Morgana her slantwise green look. “There is no need to tell him, then.”
“Not now. But I wish you to listen to me carefully. If Loria, or any of your maids—or Braithe, or the woman who made your potion—is harmed in any way, my brother will know everything. We do not abuse our servants in Camulod.”
Gwenvere’s eyelids dropped, then lifted sleepily. “I must ask you to leave me now, Priestess,” she said. “I am very tired.”
“A spoonful of the tincture every hour,” Morgana said. She turned to the door, pausing with her hand on the latch. “I advise you against doing this ever again. I don’t know the woman who created the potion you took, but there is danger there. The king will be devastated if you die.”
“Die!” Gwenvere’s eyelids snapped up.
“A spoonful every hour,” Morgana repeated, then opened the door and went out, closing it firmly behind her.
Braithe and Morgana had chosen to have a quiet dinner in Morgana’s apartment. They were just finishing when the horns sounded from the main gate. Morgana put down her wineglass. “Arthur,” she said.
Braithe touched her breastbone with her finger. “Yes. I feel it.”
“I am sorry for that.”
Braithe shook her head. “Never mind.” She added in an offhand tone, “You know he will never hear a word against her.”
“It’s very strange. I believe Arthur has always been thought to be a good judge of character.” Morgana rose and took up a shawl from a nearby chair. “Here, take this, Braithe. Your robe is thinner than mine.”
Braithe smiled her thanks and wound the shawl around her shoulders as the two of them went out to meet the returning warriors.
Prince Mordred was at the head of the welcoming committee, standing on tiptoe, searching for his elder brother among the mounted knights. Morgana and Braithe stood just outside the tower door, watching as the war party rode through the main gate. The stablemen and armorers rushed to meet them from the east tower, while Mordred and Bran, several house servants, and a dozen courtiers hurried from the west tower to stand in a group, scanning the returning knights and the foot soldiers who followed them.
