Page 15 of The Faerie Morgana

Morgana did not sleep for three nights. Braithe and the servant Marcus took turns running to fetch what she needed.

Braithe slept off and on in a chair in Arthur’s bedchamber, though a pallet had been made ready for her.

Marcus slept in the corridor, sitting against a wall or lying flat on the floor.

Morgana found him there once when she put her head out to call for something.

The Blackbird brought food from the kitchens with his own hands, and insisted Morgana eat and drink, though she felt no appetite.

She had known the moment she touched Arthur how desperately ill he was. His sickness had first shown itself with terrible vomiting that came on suddenly and wouldn’t stop even when there was nothing left in his belly. Now he was clammy and weak, groaning with pain, barely able to open his eyes.

She dosed him with a poppy tincture to ease his pain, and steamed ginger to soothe his stomach.

She described a recipe for a healing broth and, when it came, fed it to the prince a teaspoon at a time.

While the rest of the castle slept, Morgana sat beside him, her hands on his body, her brow furrowed as she struggled to understand what was wrong.

When the others woke, she saw to it that they changed his sweat-soaked bedding again and then again, rubbing his chilly skin with her hands until fresh blankets arrived.

She kept the window open day and night, adding a blanket against the nighttime chill, removing it again when the warming sunlight spilled across the bed.

By the third morning, she was both exhausted and fearful.

Arthur had managed to keep down no more than half the broth she fed him, and he had not opened his eyes in a day and a night.

He no longer perspired, and she knew his body had no moisture to spare.

His cheeks were sunken like that of an old man.

Braithe, when she looked down at him, could not hold back her tears.

The Blackbird spoke less and less, and Morgana’s heart quailed, because he was right to be afraid.

On that morning, alone for the moment with the prince, she knelt beside the bed.

She rested her folded arms on the blankets and let her forehead fall against them, so tired she could hardly hold up her head.

She sat that way for many minutes, listening to the birdsong rising beyond the castle walls, the muted sounds of people beginning to stir in the keep.

She was just thinking that she should struggle to her feet, go through her basket of supplies once again, search for some remedy she had not yet tried.

A prickling sensation on one wrist made her lift her head and blink her dry eyes open.

A drab little bird, brown and black with a yellow beak, was perched on her arm. As she gazed at it, it put its tiny head to one side and regarded her. Its eyes were black and shiny and deep, and when it chirped, something in her quivered in recognition.

“Oh,” she breathed.

It chirped again, and fluttered its tail.

“Oh. Yes. Yes.”

The bird hopped from her arm onto the bed, then flapped its wings just enough to move to the windowsill, where it sat watching her.

With effort, feeling every muscle cry out at being forced to move, Morgana got to her feet and staggered to the table where her basket waited.

In the very bottom, in a lidded cup she had forgotten was there, was a small set of divining stones, black and white pebbles gathered from the lake shore and polished until they shone.

She carried the cup to the bed and spilled the stones out onto the blanket.

She stared at them, scooped them up, spilled them out a second time, then a third, examining them each time, first with disbelief and doubt, then with growing suspicion.

She bent over the washbasin to peer into the clear water, breathing slowly in, exhaling more slowly through pursed lips. Finally, she saw it.

Uther cut the stems of monkshood with his own hand and wrapped them in a bit of burlap.

He gave them to his manservant and bid him boil them into a syrup.

He stood by, combing his red beard with his fingers and eyeing the pot to make certain no part of the lethal herb was wasted.

When the manservant completed the task and poured the syrup into a pottery jar, Uther corked it and slid it into his pocket.

Morgana looked up to find that the Blackbird was standing on the opposite side of the bed. His eyes opened wide with alarm, and his grip on his staff turned his knuckles white. “What is it?” he demanded. “Your eyes are more gold than brown!”

Morgana pulled herself up to her full height, pressing her fist against her heart. “He was poisoned,” she said, her voice deep and angry. “Arthur was poisoned. And I know who committed this offense.”

The shock of the news that the prince had been poisoned swept Camulod with the force of a sudden thunderstorm.

The courtiers fell silent. The servants went about white-faced.

Even the knights and their lackeys ceased their sword practice and withdrew into the barracks as if their presence might make the prince worse.

Braithe listened from the corridor as the Blackbird and Morgana argued. She couldn’t surmise what it was about.

“Morgana,” the Blackbird said. “You will cause us to be thrown out of the castle, or worse, before your work is done.”

“Sir, I read the stones three times!”

“I do not doubt you,” the Blackbird said.

“We need to accuse him!” she repeated. “We need to set a guard, to warn—”

“Heal Arthur first. Then we will work to protect him.”

“Braithe!” Morgana called, and Braithe immediately put her head around the door.

“Yes, Priestess.”

“Can you find my foraging knife?”

“Of course. Just one moment.” Braithe found it at the bottom of the basket, unwrapped it, and turned to hand it to Morgana, hilt first.

Morgana took it in one hand, the other a curled fist against her lips. “I should have guessed,” she muttered. “I should have scried the first day we came. Three days wasted!”

“Let us not waste any more, then,” the Blackbird said. Braithe could see he was attempting to be brisk, even bracing, but they were all exhausted, and the effort fell flat.

Morgana said, “We have to clear the poison from his body. We need elf dock.”

“Wh-what’s elf dock?” Braithe asked in a faint voice, chilled by fear that she should know, that she had forgotten a lesson.

Morgana didn’t seem to notice. “It doesn’t grow on the Isle. I think I can find it in the woods here, though. Will you stay with the prince while I go out to search?”

“Of course,” Braithe said.

“Bathe his forehead and chest. He needs moisture.”

“I will.”

“I know a place elf dock grows,” the Blackbird said. “I will show you.”

He led the way out into the corridor, but Morgana paused in the doorway. “Braithe,” she said in a low tone. “Bar the door until we return.”

The chill of fear prickled across Braithe’s shoulders.

“Yes, Priestess,” she said. Her voice shook, but only a little, and she made herself cross the room with strong steps.

Once Morgana had joined the Blackbird in the corridor, she lifted the heavy drawbar and pushed it into its slots.

When she was certain it was secure, she hurried back to the bed and pressed the back of her hand to Arthur’s cheek.

His skin was so cold she laid her other hand on his chest to assure herself his heart still beat.

She pulled an extra blanket over his still form before she dipped the sponge into the basin of water, wrung it out, and dabbed carefully at his forehead and cheeks.

She repeated the process, working her way down his throat, and then, folding back the top of the blanket, his chest. Her hands trembled, and she told herself it was fear for him, but some part of her—her heart or her belly—knew that wasn’t true.

It was excitement that made her hands shake and her throat go dry.

Braithe was fifteen, and she had never, since her brother left her on the shore of the Isle of Apples, been alone with a man.

She had heard some of the other acolytes whispering and giggling over stories of boys they had seen rowing the boats that plied the lake.

All acolytes were required to vow never to lie with a man.

It was part of the price of admission to the Temple, but they were young, and the healthy fire of interest and desire flowed in their veins despite the oath they had sworn.

Braithe had never given a thought to any man until the day she first saw Arthur of Camulod. Morgana’s half brother. The true king.

The fairest man in Lloegyr.

She dampened her sponge again, caressed Arthur’s smooth chest with it, then pulled the blanket up to his chin.

She gazed down at his face, her heart full of longing, her imagination running wild despite everything.

She was just a handmaid, a girl of no family, and of no means except what the Temple provided, but dreams were hard to extinguish, even waking ones.

In her dreams she could stand beside Arthur of Camulod as an equal. As a princess.

She turned away from his bed to look in the mirror over his washstand, seeing the freckled country girl looking back, and remembering how foolish such fantasies were.

Uther and his wife Morgause were waiting when Morgana and the Blackbird came into the castle from the keep, Morgana carrying a basket that held the roots and rhizomes of elf dock.

Uther was a big man, not tall, but broad of shoulder and heavily muscled.

He had small yellow teeth that seemed at odds with the size of his body.

He was known for his animal appetites, and Morgana could smell the lingering taint of lust on him, as if he had doused himself in some foul perfume.

He was known to keep concubines near at hand, despite having taken a second wife.