Page 40 of The Faerie Morgana

The assembled guests and servants clustered in the lesser hall after breakfast to await the appearance of the bridal party.

The hall was filled with their chatter and the swish and clatter of the finery they had put on for the event.

Morgana began to wish she had stayed in her own chamber.

She saw several of the royal guests, purses in hand, pressing Braithe to arrange private appointments with the priestess, and poor Braithe spreading her hands as she made excuses.

She knew better than to sell Morgana’s time.

It was a relief when the horns sounded from the gatehouse, and people began to crowd toward the doorway.

Bran appeared and held the door wide as two of his assistants ushered the guests out of the hall. They poured in colorful groups down the staircase to make their way out into the keep. Morgana hung back, out of the crush. Braithe, seeing, came to her.

“Are you all right, brat?” Morgana said.

Braithe said, “Of course, Priestess.”

“My half brother has asked a great deal of you.”

“It’s an honor.”

“Or an imposition,” Morgana said.

Braithe glanced up at her, and though there were shadows beneath her eyes and her cheeks were pale, her gaze was steady. “I doubt it occurs to him that he is imposing on anyone.”

“It is unlike him.”

Braithe’s expression told Morgana she agreed, but she didn’t say anything further.

The steward, still in the doorway, discreetly cleared his throat. Morgana looked around and saw that she and Braithe were the only ones left in the hall. “Coming, Bran,” she said. Then, to Braithe, “Your dignity does you credit.”

Braithe flashed her a smile as they moved forward. “I am keeping my promise to you.”

“You are reminding me of mine to you?”

“Yes.” Braithe’s smile faded so swiftly that Morgana knew it had taken an effort to produce. “Yes,” Braithe repeated. “I am.” And she whispered, so softly Morgana wasn’t certain she was meant to hear:

Strong is weak and weak is strong.

The clever are foolish,

The innocent wise.

The cool sun was high and clear as four brightly caparisoned horses came through the main gate, carrying riders in helmets and mail, swords in their sheaths by their sides, gaudy summer cloaks of scarlet and yellow pinned to their shoulders.

Braithe knew Arthur disliked such displays and had mocked one or two courtiers for excessive finery.

His own clothes usually differed very little from those of his subjects.

He tended to wear the green of forest shade or the blue of Ilyn on a summer’s day. He frowned on anything flamboyant.

Behind the riders came two stout serfs in tunics and undyed leggings, carrying a litter between them.

Its gauze curtains were drawn, hiding its occupant.

Another serf walked beside the head of an ox pulling a cart, wielding the long switch in his hand from time to time.

The cart was laden with trunks and baskets and wrapped bundles.

Last came a trio of women afoot, wearing drab dresses with woven shawls tied at the neck.

They looked tired and hot, but they gazed with avid curiosity at the storied castle of Camulod.

“A small escort,” Morgana murmured.

“In these days a large guard is not needed, I believe,” Braithe said.

“Thanks to the king.”

“Yes. Thanks to the king.”

Arthur himself came out then to welcome the travelers, and the crowd parted to let him stride to the front.

He wore a white embroidered shirt beneath the simplest of blue cloaks tossed over one shoulder.

His leggings were fitted, neatly wrapped, but plain.

He wore no sword. The only finery on his person was the narrow circlet of gold on his brow and the signet ring of Lloegyr on his right hand.

Braithe thought the simplicity of his attire accentuated the perfection of his figure and the grace and elegance of his bearing.

He was magnificent, and though she strove for detachment, her heart twisted with longing.

Behind him came his young brother, Prince Mordred, like Arthur, dressed simply. He imitated the way the king walked, and mimicked everything he did. It was a clear case of hero worship. One of her own brothers had been the same with the eldest in their family.

The knights guarding the litter pulled up their horses and dismounted to bow to Arthur.

The horsemaster came out with three stablemen to lead the horses away, while Bran stepped forward with a cup of wine to be passed from man to man, ending with Arthur himself.

The leader of the guard spoke a few words Braithe couldn’t hear.

Arthur responded in a carrying voice, “Welcome to Camulod! And now that we have shared the cup of peace, may I greet my bride?”

The leader bowed again and stepped back to allow Arthur himself to approach the litter.

The serfs had set it down on the packed earth of the keep.

One of the servingwomen hurried to pull back the curtain and help the lady out, but Arthur forestalled her.

He knelt, one knee on the ground, and held out his hand, saying, “Welcome to Camulod, Lady Gwenvere.”

A slender, pale hand reached from within the litter, and Arthur took it.

One small slippered foot appeared, then a second, and Arthur jumped to his feet.

Smoothly, lightly, the lady stepped out and stood, her head down, the silver-gray veil covering her face and hair drifting in the morning breeze.

A circlet of silver held it in place, sparkling in the sunshine.

Her dress was in the Roman style, gathered beneath her breasts, flowing around her slim body in panels of ivory and rose and the same silver-gray of her veil.

The gown looked as insubstantial as a wisp of fog, shimmering like a fragment of a rainbow.

Braithe schooled her expression into one of composure. No one spoke as Arthur aided the lady to draw back her veil and fold it over her shoulders.

Gwenvere turned to face the assembled guests, looking up from beneath her brows as if too shy to face them directly, her full lips curling in a tremulous smile.

Her hair was the pale gold of corn silk, done in a dozen intricate plaits that fell nearly to her waist. Her eyes flashed green, the green of the new shoots even now spearing the tilled soil of the gardens.

Her skin was as clear as the brook that trickled down from the woods to pour itself into the lake.

Braithe had to stop herself from putting a hand to her own freckled cheek, as if that would make a difference. The Lady Gwenvere was as delicately made as a butterfly, fragile and graceful. Braithe, gazing at her, felt thick-bodied and awkward.

One of the housemaids nearby cooed, “Oooh! She’s even prettier than the king.”

A flash of sunlight dazzled Braithe’s eyes, and she narrowed them against it as she gazed on the royal couple.

To her shock, a sudden shimmer surrounded the Lady Gwenvere, as if she were not quite real.

As if she were a reflection in the waters of Ilyn, something a scryer or someone with deep sight might see.

Braithe suppressed a gasp as the shimmer steadied and she saw a different face, a different form, as if another woman had appeared in Gwenvere’s place.

Braithe blinked, and the illusion evaporated. This time her bones vibrated so intensely that she trembled. As Arthur led his bride toward the tower, Braithe watched with something like horror. What was happening? What had she seen?

This was not magic as Morgana wielded it. This was something else. Braithe had no idea what it could be.

Arthur beckoned to Morgana and Braithe to walk with him and his bride.

Obediently, they stepped in front of the courtiers and servants to follow just behind the couple.

Gwenvere’s gown was long, its skirts trailing behind her as the four of them climbed the stairs.

Morgana and Braithe had to take care not to tread on her hem.

Morgana heard Arthur murmuring to Gwenvere, pointing out rooms, speaking of the castle’s history.

He touched her hand occasionally where it rested on his arm.

Gwenvere, as far as Morgana could tell, made no reply, though she did turn her head to take in the flowers and the hangings arranged in her honor.

Bran was waiting on the landing outside the great hall.

Arthur introduced him to Gwenvere. “Keep the doors closed for a bit, Bran. I want the Lady Gwenvere to meet my half sister and get to know her new companion.” When Mordred came clattering up the stairs, Arthur turned to him with an indulgent smile.

“We just need a few minutes, brother, and then you can bring our other guests into the hall.” Mordred, with his typical flush, nodded, and stopped where he was.

Bran ushered the four of them inside the hall, then closed the doors behind them, remaining outside on the landing.

Morgana saw that the long table in the center of the hall was already set with baskets of bread and platters of fruit and vegetables.

The meats would be carried up from the kitchen when the feast began.

Arthur led Gwenvere to the dais opposite the window, where a chair had been set beside the big one he always used.

As she settled herself, her beautiful gown pooling at her feet, he stood beaming at Morgana and Braithe.

“Come, sister, and you, too, Braithe. I wanted you to meet the Lady Gwenvere in private.”

It was odd, meeting Gwenvere’s green gaze.

Her expression was guileless, her lips curving in a pleasant smile, her head tilted just so, in a practiced manner.

Her hair was such a pale color it nearly matched Morgana’s own silver, and the intricacy of her plaits must have taken her maid hours to achieve.

But her eyes, that fresh green beneath long pale lashes, spoke of something else to Morgana, something her deep sight could not yet divine.