Page 80 of The Faerie Morgana
She bit her lip. “I do feel something, sir, but I couldn’t tell you its source.”
“Nor, to my shame, can I. But I know it’s there.”
“And you want me to wear a charm?”
“I have everything I need to make it.”
“But what sort of charm could it be, sir? I do not go into battle.”
The Blackbird gave a dry chuckle. “Oh, I think you do, little Braithe. I think you do.”
Braithe touched the amulet through the fabric of her gown. The Blackbird had explained to her that it would make her aware of the queen’s movements. “You will sense her,” he had said in his reedy voice. “If she rises in the night, you will know. If she is someplace you hadn’t expected her to be, you will feel it. If she follows Morgana, my hope is that you will sense the danger, and go after them.”
She had asked how such a charm could be created, but hisexplanation was too brief for her to really understand. Morgana was good about describing her process, but the Blackbird was impatient, terse, noting things like several hairs from the queen’s head, a scrap of fabric from one of her numerous gowns, one of her slippers. He didn’t say how he had acquired these things, but she guessed Marcus was his source. A servingman could go in and out of the various chambers and apartments without drawing attention.
The Blackbird had not spoken of the rift between himself and Priestess Morgana. And though Braithe had been blunt about what she knew and had witnessed, she had not found the courage to ask about it. When he urged her to tell no one about the charm and its purpose, she said, “Not even Priestess Morgana?” and he had shaken his head.
In the keep, the main gates were already open. Prince Mordred, grown tall and thin in the way of boys on the verge of manhood, stood with Queen Gwenvere at the head of a welcome party. Morgana was at one side of the crowd that had gathered, her basket propped on her hip. Braithe hurried to her side, but she watched Gwenvere, wondering. Would she feel her, even now?
She did not. The queen looked as beautiful as she usually did, wearing one of her elaborate gowns, with her intricate pale plaits shining in the midday sun. Mordred, beside her, stood straight and still, doing his best to look manly. Bran had organized the staff to take the wounded to the barracks, and they waited in solemn rows. Several burly men in black tunics stood to one side, waiting to deal with the dead. The sounds of funeral pyres being built already came from the forest clearing. Everyone inthe keep was silent, eager to see the victors, dreading the discovery of which men had not survived the fighting.
Morgana whispered, “Where have you been?”
Braithe muttered something about helping Loria clean the queen’s apartment. It could have been an awkward moment, and Morgana would quickly detect any untruth, but the first horsemen clattered through the gates, forestalling any further talk.
The autumn afternoon had turned hot, as if in memory of the summer just past. Most of the returning warriors had pulled off their helmets, some even their armor. Perspiration ran down dirty faces. Many wore torn tunics, and some had soiled bandages wound around their arms or legs. Despite the pennants declaring their victory, they made a haggard troupe. Arthur rode at the head, but it was a ceremonial act. The moment they were within the gates, he dismounted and strode back to the cart carrying the wounded. Lancelin also slid down from his saddle and hastened to assist.
Braithe felt the tension around her as the women stood on tiptoe, searching among the knights and foot soldiers for their loved ones. Cries of relief mixed with repressed sobs. Morgana led Braithe through the crowd toward the east tower to await the wounded. Braithe averted her eyes from the cart where blankets crusted with blood and dirt covered the bodies of the dead.
She was just stepping out of the sun and into the shade of the barracks when she glanced back to see Arthur going to greet the queen at last, and to clasp Mordred’s thin shoulder. He was bareheaded except for his coronet. His hair hung in unwashed hanks to his shoulders, and his blue tunic was sweat-drenchedand dirty. She thought he looked glorious. When Gwenvere threw her arms around his neck with an exaggerated cry of joy, Braithe gritted her teeth against a wave of disgust, then turned to follow Morgana into the barracks.
Braithe and Morgana labored long that day. At times Braithe had to run back to the priestess’s chamber to replenish her supplies. The maids stayed in the barracks to fetch water, wind bandages, hold the hands of men in pain.
Arthur, having washed and donned a fresh tunic and leggings, came to help. Braithe’s heart swelled with pride to see him stanching a freshly bleeding wound or standing shoulder to shoulder with Morgana as she worked to set a broken leg. He touched his men’s shoulders, held cups of water to their lips, brought them pillows and blankets. Once Braithe saw him carrying a chamber pot out toward the latrine, until one of the servingmen hurried to take it from him.
By nightfall, the wounded men were settled. Morgana muttered thanks to the Lady that no more had died. Braithe murmured the stanza:
Beyond the darkness, light.
Beneath the waters, earth.
After despair, hope.
Morgana said wearily, “Perhaps you should be a priestess after all, brat.”
Braithe shook her head. “No chair of the Nine would fit me, Priestess. I’m too small. In every way.”
32
Morgana did not see Lancelin alone for some time after his return from the east. She was kept busy dispensing salves and syrups, preparing tinctures, foraging for herbs when they ran out. She worked until she nearly fell asleep on her feet, and had no chance to go to the bench on top of the courtine.
The task of dealing with the dead fell to Lancelin, as the king’s principal lieutenant. He spoke to bereaved families. He oversaw the compensation the king had set aside for those who lost husbands and sons and fathers. He stood by the pyres as the remains were burned, and saw to it that the ashes were buried in a place declared sacred, with the names of the dead fighters carved into a bronze plaque by the king’s scribes. He served as host for the somber observances afterward, reading the names of the casualties aloud while Bran served cider and ale and the traditional bitter bread made for such occasions.
Arthur joined Lancelin as the fires burned, but the queen did not. Braithe told Morgana that Gwenvere said the smell of burning bodies made her sick, so Morgana stood by her half brother’s side during the grim ceremony.
Braithe told her later that Gwenvere lost her temper at hearing that the witch-priestess had taken her place beside the pyre and had joined Arthur in offering condolences and coins to the bereaved. “I reminded her that she refused when the king asked her to be there,” Braithe said. “She threw a brush at me, and it flew right out the window and fell in the keep. Her face turned so red I thought her hair might catch fire.”
“I will speak to her,” Morgana said. “She is not to treat you that way.”
