Page 43 of The Faerie Morgana
The wedding ceremony itself was brief, led by Morgana’s commanding voice, culminating in the lifting of Gwenvere’s veil, the placing of the coronet on her shining head, and the joining of her hands with Arthur’s.
He was dressed more richly than usual in a deep blue tunic with a wide studded belt and contrasting scarlet cloak, fitted fawn leggings and knee-high black leather boots.
They made a stunning couple, the embodiment of a king and queen from the old fables of Lloegyr.
Priestess Morgana, her duties complete, stepped back and allowed the people to see their ruler and his bride.
They cheered and tossed their caps in the air.
Women threw flowers, and men bent the knee.
The Blackbird stood leaning on his staff, watching everything from beneath the brim of his hat.
Braithe, standing beneath the dais, saw the joyful glow in Arthur’s eyes and turned her face away.
Morgana stepped down from the dais under cover of the celebration.
She slipped through the crowd and tried to make her way toward the tower unnoticed, but people saw her and parted to make way.
Many bent their heads to her as she walked by.
Several murmured respectful greetings. She answered them as best she could, but she hurried her pace, eager for the peace and quiet of her bedchamber.
Throughout the ceremony, she had been aware of the Blackbird’s presence.
He had done nothing to draw attention to himself—or any more attention than was usual for the black mage who had come to reside at Camulod—but she felt him there, a node of power, of wisdom, of dedication, the attributes that had always drawn her to him, always held her respect, even devotion, and which now were denied her.
It reminded her of what had been broken between them, and how helpless she was to repair it.
She had not attempted to speak to him. She felt certain he would not respond, that he would turn those piercing black eyes away from her, and she didn’t think she could bear that.
She had focused instead on her half brother, on his happiness and pride, and the gratitude in his eyes when she held out the new queen’s coronet and he accepted it from her hands to place on Gwenvere’s flawless brow.
She reached her bedchamber, went in, and closed the door.
The sounds of the ongoing festivities rose from the keep to pour through the unglazed window and fill her room, but she had no interest in them.
She shrugged out of her robe, feeling overwarm and impatient.
There was a dressing gown hanging on a hook in the wardrobe, and she pulled that on, then sat in front of the little silver mirror above her table to try to undo the confection her handmaid had made of her hair.
Her door opened quietly, and Braithe put her head around. “I thought you might be resting.”
“Come in, brat. I was trying to take down this edifice you created on my head.”
“I’ll do that for you, Priestess.”
“Herself doesn’t need you at the moment?”
“She has more attention than even she could want just now.” Braithe closed the door behind her and came to take the pins and the brush from Morgana’s hands. “Here, now,” she said. “I know how it went in, so I’ll be better at taking it out.”
“It was a stunning arrangement.”
“I wanted your hair to outshine hers.” Braithe gave a satisfied smile. “And it did.”
That made Morgana chuckle, and she relaxed, putting herself in Braithe’s hands.
For several minutes they didn’t speak. Morgana closed her eyes when Braithe began to brush her hair, and she thought how indulgent it was to have someone else do that.
Besides Braithe, it was a rare thing when someone touched her, and though she preferred it that way as a rule, the feeling of bristles against her scalp, of the massaging of Braithe’s sensitive fingertips, was surprisingly comforting, and she couldn’t help being sorry when Braithe finished.
“Now, Priestess,” Braithe said, as she looped Morgana’s brushed-out tresses into a loose tie. “You must lie down and rest. The king will expect you at the banquet this evening.”
“I suppose he will. Can you rest this afternoon?”
“I am expected to dress the lady—that is, Queen Gwenvere—for the dinner.”
“As if you’re a lady’s maid now.”
“Yes.” Braithe pursed her lips as she cleaned Morgana’s hairbrush and tidied the tabletop. “But I will not object, Priestess. It’s better I stay close to her.”
“To watch her.”
“Exactly.”
“I loathe seeing you used in this way.”
Braithe shrugged and crossed to the bed to fold back the coverlet. She held out her hand for the dressing gown, then folded it neatly at the foot as Morgana slid beneath the blanket. When Morgana was in bed, and Braithe had adjusted her pillow, she stood back, her hands linked before her.
Morgana barely recognized the look on her handmaid’s soft features. There was no sign of her dimples. “It doesn’t matter, Priestess,” she said, her voice as hard as her expression. “I have made promises, both to you and to the king.”
But when she looked up, meeting Morgana’s gaze, the pain in her eyes made Morgana’s breath catch in her throat. Braithe’s sacrifice was real. Morgana wondered if she could forgive Arthur for demanding it.