Page 37 of The Faerie Morgana

In the early days of the fourth year of his reign, King Arthur decided to marry.

Morgana was one of the first on the Isle of Apples to learn of this.

Niamh sent Braithe to fetch her, and she attended the elder priestess in the inner chamber as soon as she had finished with the day’s petitioners.

She was tired, because there had been complex requests that needed intricate instructions and carefully prepared tinctures, as well as one tiny but powerful charm, which always sapped her energy.

When she stepped into the room she was surprised to find the elder priestess sitting alone in her official chair. Morgana inclined her head to her, and Niamh raised a hand in acknowledgment. Morgana crossed to her own chair and settled into it, stretching out her long legs with a weary sigh.

“Do you need refreshment?” Niamh asked. Her voice had gotten higher and thinner in the past year, a sound like the scraping of windblown branches on stone. “Dafne is just outside.”

“She is going to bring me some cider. It was a long day.”

“Profitable?”

“Mostly. Some were modest, but one or two substantial purses.”

“Good. Good. Because—” The old priestess sighed and leaned on one elbow as she gazed into Morgana’s face. “Because you are going to Camulod, and we don’t know how long you will be away.”

Morgana had relaxed in her chair, but now she straightened, her eyebrows rising. Her brows had remained dark, despite the silvering of her hair. The contrast surprised her on the rare occasion she saw her own reflection. “Why—” she began, but Dafne came into the room, interrupting her.

When Dafne had served her a cup of cider, with a bit of bread and cheese alongside it, and another for Niamh, she departed. Morgana picked up her cup. “Something has happened, I gather.”

“Yes. Well, something is going to happen.” Niamh propped her chin on her fist and watched Morgana with canny black eyes beneath heavy wrinkled lids. “Your half brother has decided to take a wife.”

“Oh!” Morgana had lifted the cup to her lips, but she lowered it again. “Oh, Arthur is—has he a maid in mind?”

“He has already negotiated with her family, I am told. Her father is from the western reaches, a modest holding, I hear, but he sent four knights from his demesne to serve the king at Camulod.”

“And the girl?” Now Morgana did take a deep draught of the cider and cradled the cup in her long fingers. This was news she should have expected, of course. Arthur was twenty, and it was time for him to marry.

“I am told she is a great beauty,” Niamh said.

“Such girls are always claimed to be beauties, are they not, Priestess?”

Niamh allowed herself a small cackle, then sobered. “It may be true. According to the messenger from the castle, Arthur saw her when he was campaigning near her father’s lands and fell in love.”

“Oh. Oh, I see.” She should have seen, but the truth was that she had not scried in weeks, having no particular reason to do so.

She had fallen into indolent habits, spending her free time walking along the lake or in the woods, enticed by the first blooming of spring.

She had allowed herself, for a time, to forget her life’s chief purpose.

But this—it seemed unlike Arthur to make such a great decision based on some swiftly conceived passion.

It would have been more in character for him to choose strategically, a foreign bride perhaps, whose family could help to strengthen Lloegyr’s borders.

“By rights, we should send Olfreth to officiate at the wedding, but King Arthur has asked for you.”

Morgana nodded, pleased. “I am happy to go, at the king’s pleasure.”

Niamh sighed, and the weight of responsibility she carried showed in every seam of her lined face and in the tired droop of her furrowed cheeks. “I’m afraid you must.”

“Will it be such a hardship for you, Priestess?”

Niamh pulled herself upright and slipped her hands into her wide sleeves. “Most of our supplicants come asking for you, Morgana. Not many will be satisfied with any other.”

“But surely Joslyn—or Olfreth—”

“Oh, yes. They are quite capable, although their work is not so… dramatic as yours, shall we say?”

Morgana thought it was an interesting way to put it. She rose, smoothing her robe and straightening her sigil. “When am I to leave?”

“I understand that the king’s bride is on her way from her father’s keep even now, and Camulod is sending a boat for you in the morning. The wedding takes place in three days.”

“That seems very soon for such a big step.”

“It does to me as well, but I suppose—a young man in love…”

Morgana frowned at the sudden sense of premonition that seized her. She could not identify it, or explain it to Niamh. She said only, “Very well. I will go and pack my things.”

“You will want your handmaid, of course.”

Morgana hesitated. She would indeed prefer to have Braithe with her.

The girl lightened every load, eased every obstacle while Morgana was busy.

A wedding would be a great deal of work, and there were inevitably other tasks that fell to her wherever she went.

But would taking Braithe to Camulod be fair to her?

To be so close to Arthur, and to watch him marry another, must surely cause her pain.

Whether taking her to Camulod would help her break free of her passion or intensify it, Morgana didn’t know.

She said, “I suppose she must go with me, as she has no other work to do here.”

“Are you not dependent on her? I perceive she does a great deal to ease your burdens.”

“She does, and yes, I am, Priestess. I just— Camulod—” Her sentence died unfinished.

Niamh gazed at her for a long, assessing moment, wisdom glittering in her old eyes. “There is temptation there,” she said flatly.

“I will speak with her before we go.”

“Words mean far less to the young than to those of us with experience.”

“I know.”

“I doubt you see yourself this way, but you yourself are still young. Even you could be diverted by the temptations of Camulod.” Niamh’s voice was gentler than usual.

Morgana said, “Priestess, my body may be young, but my soul is as old as this isle. The charms of royal life hold no appeal for me.”

“Hmmm.” Niamh pushed herself up out of her chair with a little groan of effort. “I will cast the stones before you go, Morgana, so you and your handmaid will have some advantage.”

Morgana forbore to point out that Niamh’s scrying was no longer strong. It was a further kindness, and she wanted nothing to taint the rare moment they had just shared. She said, “I thank you, Priestess. Some foreknowledge will be helpful.”

She inclined her head once more to Niamh, then left the inner chamber to go in search of Braithe. They had little time to prepare, and she would want a full complement of supplies. It would be wise, too, to cast the stones herself.

Braithe had no reservations. She was thrilled by the news. “Camulod!” she breathed. Visions of the castle sprang up in her mind, and she saw again the jeweled courtine, the scarlet banners lifting in the wind, the two stone towers shining above the keep. “We are really going? To Camulod?”

“Brat, listen to me,” Morgana said. She looked stern, as if she were about to scold, though she so rarely did. “We are going, yes, and we must hasten to prepare. But—Braithe, listen. The king has requested I come to Camulod to officiate at his wedding. He has chosen a bride.”

Braithe’s breath caught with a tiny gasp. She knew her cheeks flamed, but she dropped her head so Morgana would not see the expression in her eyes. For a moment she couldn’t speak at all.

“You knew he must marry at some time,” Morgana said.

Braithe nodded. She knotted her hands together in a fold of her robe as she struggled to recover her composure. When she looked up, she saw that Morgana’s eyes were dark, with no hint of gold. “Are you angry with me?”

“No. I am sorry it still hurts you.”

“You are not angry with Arthur, either, I hope.”

Morgana moved away, to gaze out her window to the woods beyond the Temple compound.

The dog roses that grew along the paths showed pink buds that would soon flower.

The elder and elm trees were in full leaf, casting dappled shadows on the forest floor.

“I think,” she said slowly, “that my half brother should have been the wiser one.”

Braithe blurted, her voice trembling, “But I wanted him, too! I was glad to have him, even for such a short time, and if I could have him again, I would.”

Morgana turned back to face her. “You worry me.”

“I don’t mean I expect it to happen,” Braithe said, her cheeks warming again. “I only meant—if he—”

“Perhaps I should not take you to Camulod,” Morgana said.

Braithe felt the opportunity slipping away from her, the castle receding into the distance, the royal festivities withdrawing behind closed doors.

She saw her chance to be in Arthur’s presence once again fading to nothing.

She clasped her hands before her, willing her voice to be steady.

“Priestess. I will promise anything you like. I will not embarrass you, or do anything to embarrass the king.” She had to pause for breath.

“I suppose Arthur has selected a princess for his bride, someone from the north, or perhaps a noblewoman from the Low Countries. Someone with a grand dowry and a grander pedigree!”

Braithe allowed herself to imagine a plain girl, bony maybe, with ditchwater hair, perhaps an ugly voice.

Her wedding would be a duty marriage, arranged for political advantage.

The poor thing would be aware she was unlovely, that only the circumstances of her birth brought her to Arthur as a bride.

Braithe could be sympathetic to such a girl, show her kindness, encourage her in her new royal duties.

But Morgana was shaking her head. “I am told my half brother has chosen for love.”

“Oh.” The old pain resurged in Braithe’s breast, the pain she had done her best to suppress.

He had fallen in love. Not with her, the freckled country girl, a mere handmaid, a cottar’s daughter.

He had fallen in love with someone better, a beauty.

Mysterious, enchanting, a girl to drive all other maidens out of Arthur’s mind.

Morgana reached out and unwound one of Braithe’s tightly clasped hands to hold it in her long fingers.

“My dear brat,” she said. “I know well that you keep your promises. You are the most faithful of women, and I trust you with my life. I cannot bear to see you hurt again.”

Braithe drew a shaky breath past the stubborn knot trying to form in her throat.

She swallowed, and blinked away the tears threatening to fill her eyes.

Summoning her composure, she straightened her spine.

“Priestess,” she said. She tried to speak firmly, but a small tremor in her voice betrayed her, and she coughed.

“Priestess,” she began again. Her voice steadied, and she looked directly up into Morgana’s face.

“I swear that I will behave in Camulod as a handmaid should. As a Temple maiden should.” She managed a smile, knowing Morgana had a weakness for her dimples.

“But I will ask you to promise something, too.”

At that, Morgana’s stiff expression relaxed, and her lips curled a little. “The handmaid asks a promise of the priestess?”

Braithe made her smile wider, hiding the hurt still burning in her throat. “I do! And I expect you to keep it.”

Morgana squeezed her fingers and released them. “Tell me what this great promise is, brat, and I will let you know if I can make it.”

Braithe let her smile fade, because despite everything, this was a serious matter. “I want you to promise me you will not shapeshift.”

Morgana’s eyes widened, and flashes of gold sparked from them. “Braithe!”

Braithe set her chin. “It is too dangerous for you. Last time, you almost died. Lloegyr needs you, and the king needs you. Alive. Promise me.”

After a long pause, in which Braithe worried she had presumed too much on their friendship, Morgana began to chuckle.

“Oh, brat,” she said. Her demeanor transformed, her expression easing into one of good humor.

Her eyes were glistening pools of gold, dramatic beneath her dark brows and against the silver of her hair.

“You are a brave little thing. Who else would dare to demand a vow of me?” She pointed to the chest where her extra robes and shifts were kept.

“I will make your promise! Could we start packing? We have a journey to make!”