Page 47 of The Faerie Morgana

Braithe’s temper began to rise, and she felt its heat in her cheeks. “He would never say that. She is his sister.”

“Half sister! Half witch, if you ask me! I don’t trust her, but I need this potion.”

Braithe’s anger grew. Against her better judgment, she spoke her true thoughts. “You’re the queen, are you not, my lady? Providing Lloegyr an heir is your job.”

“I don’t need you to tell me my job,” Gwenvere snapped. “I need you to do as I say, and be quick about it. I want this over with before Arthur returns.”

“Why, my lady?”

“I have no need to explain myself to you!”

“The priestess will never agree to such a thing without a consultation.”

“Consultation! Have you not just said she is no mage?”

Braithe’s temper burned hotter, and she felt the curl of her lip as she said, “Is it a mage you require? Shall I call the Blackbird?”

No one except the king spoke to the Blackbird without an invitation.

Everyone feared he would curse them if they offended him.

Morgana had assured Braithe that there was no truth to that superstition, but it suited the Blackbird to have people believe he was dangerous. It was a gibe, and Gwenvere knew it.

She took a step toward Braithe. “How dare you?” she snarled, her voice so like a snake’s Braithe almost tripped in her haste to move back.

Gwenvere pressed forward, leaning close enough to breathe sour air over Braithe’s face.

“Tell your witch-priestess one of the maids needs this potion, and she needs it now. Go!”

It was the sort of command Braithe knew the queen’s maids could not resist. Gwenvere’s fury was as intense as a physical blow, hot and hard and demanding.

But, Braithe told herself, she was a maiden of the Temple.

She might not be a priestess, but she was not a servant, nor was she any longer a simple cottar’s daughter.

She would not back away another step. She braced herself, folding her arms and setting her feet, and said flatly, “I will not.” Her heart thudded and her blood sang in her ears, but she held her ground.

“I will not betray King Arthur in such a way, nor will the priestess Morgana. I can promise you that. The answer is no.”

“You can’t say no to me! You—you are—”

Braithe lifted her chin, holding the queen’s gaze with her own.

When the queen’s temper flared and broke, everything about her changed. Her green eyes darkened to the color of dried moss. The skin around her mouth pulled tight, creating lines in her cheeks like those of an old woman. Her fury made her pant, as openmouthed and wet-lipped as an animal.

All at once, Braithe recognized her. This was the real Gwenvere. This was the woman Braithe had seen that first day, hiding behind the illusion of beauty and grace.

Then, before Braithe understood what she was going to do, Gwenvere pulled back her arm, and with all her strength, grunting with the effort, she slapped Braithe full in the face.

Braithe stumbled and nearly fell. She righted herself and stood staring at the queen, her anger quenched by shock. No one had ever struck her before, not even when she was little and quarreling with her sisters and brothers.

Gwenvere stared back, blinking, breathing hard.

The chimera of beauty and youth returned as she panted, her eyes resuming their brilliant green, her cheeks smoothing, her lips full and tender.

Braithe watched the transformation with wide eyes, one hand cupping her burning cheek, fury burning in her throat.

It was the end of her service to Gwenvere, no matter what Arthur wanted. There was no going back from this moment. She was done.

Braithe spun about and slammed out of the queen’s apartment, not caring how the door jarred against the jamb. Gwenvere screamed after her, but Braithe didn’t slow her steps. She picked up her skirts and dashed straight up the stairs to Morgana’s bedchamber.

Morgana was pounding willow bark with a mallet at her table, preparing a tincture for the aches and pains that inevitably came to her door. She heard the flying footsteps coming up the stairs and set down her mallet.

Her handmaid burst through the door, saying, “I will not serve her anymore!” before bursting into noisy tears.

“Braithe!” Morgana hurried to shut the door, then turned to see what was the matter.

What she saw made her gasp and hurry to her table for a cloth to dampen in rose water.

“Who struck you?” Braithe was sobbing too hard to answer.

Morgana pressed the cool cloth to her flaming cheek, where the handprint was clearly visible, outlined in red, the skin around it whitened with pain. “Gwenvere did this?”

Braithe’s nose had started to run, and Morgana wiped it for her, then guided her to a chair. Braithe put her head into her hands and cried for another minute, then sniffled her way to an end. She mopped her eyes with the cloth and raised her head. “Sorry,” she choked.

“Nonsense.” Morgana took the cloth and moistened it again with the vial of rose water before handing it back. “Keep that on your cheek while I go kill someone.”

That made Braithe laugh, which made her nose run again.

As she swabbed her face, Morgana found a fresh cloth to give her.

Finally, though Braithe still hiccuped, her tears dried, and the red began to recede from her cheek, although Morgana saw there would be a bruise, probably from one of the heavy rings on the queen’s fingers.

She pulled a second chair close to Braithe and laid a hand on her knee.

“Tell me what happened, brat,” she growled.

“And it had better be good, or there truly will be murder done this day.”

“It was not good,” Braithe said, with a watery smile. “But not murder-worthy.”

“That I will decide for myself,” Morgana said. “Now, will you tell me, or must I scry?”

“I will tell you. I had no loyalty to the queen, in any case, and now—” Braithe shook out the cloth and began to fold it, creasing and re-creasing it with her fingers. “Gwenvere is pregnant. And she doesn’t want to be.”

Morgana sat back, twining her fingers in her lap as she took this in. “And why did that prompt her to strike you?”

“I refused to ask you for something to end her pregnancy.”

Morgana raised one eyebrow. “Did she actually imagine I would give her such a thing?”

“She wanted me to tell you it was for one of the kitchen maids.”

“Ah. I might have done that.”

“But it would have meant lying to you.”

“And that you would not do.”

Braithe thrust out her round chin. “Never. Nor to the king.”

“No. You must be the most loyal of all his subjects.” Morgana reached for the bell on her table and rang it. “We need cider. Or wine.” Braithe did not argue.

A very young chambermaid knocked on the door a minute later and put her head around. “Priestess? Did you need something?” When she saw that it was Braithe sitting with Morgana, her eyes widened. “Priestess Braithe—the queen is calling for you. Did you know?”

Morgana answered for her. “She knows. We will deal with it, Esme, after you bring us something to drink. Wine, I think.”

“Right away, Priestess.” She withdrew.

Morgana stretched her long legs out in front of her. “I suppose Queen Gwenvere is working herself into a state.”

“Not the first time,” Braithe said dryly. “She does not cry, though. She curses, and stamps, and breaks things. So long as Arthur is not present!”

“I have no doubt.” The wine arrived. Morgana thanked Esme and sent her off. She poured the wine herself and lifted her cup to Braithe before taking a long, stimulating sip. “Did she say why she did not want the babe?”

“I asked. She didn’t answer.”

“It may not be Arthur’s, I suppose. Or perhaps she never intended motherhood.”

“I don’t see how she thought she could prevent it.”

“There are ways; perhaps she tried, and failed.”

“I am sorry for the maids who have to deal with her just now.”

“I am, too. Well, we will let her have her tantrum, then go together to speak to her.”

“She will know I told you.”

“She can be furious at us both.”

They found Gwenvere still in her bedchamber.

One of her maids, a short, middle-aged woman with a heavy bosom, was with her.

The maid gave Morgana and Braithe a look of relief at passing the burden on to them.

She scurried out of the room without speaking, and without looking back at her mistress.

Gwenvere, her pale hair tangling around her face, was seated beside her table.

She had a small corked jar in her hand, and she set it on her table with a click before she turned a narrow-eyed glance on Braithe. “You betrayed me, I see.”

“Call it what you will, my lady. I am a maiden of the Lady’s Temple. We do not lie.”

“Then my husband chose poorly when he selected you as my companion.”

“Lady Gwenvere,” Morgana said, letting her deep voice resound against the stone walls. “You owe Braithe an apology.”

“I never apologize.”

“Noted. And Braithe never lies. Do not ask it of her again.”

Gwenvere rose slowly, her eyes on Morgana. “The queen of Lloegyr does not take orders from a witch.”

Braithe sucked in a noisy breath. Morgana lifted a finger to advise patience.

She spoke to Gwenvere with deliberate weight to her words.

“I am no mere witch. I am a priestess of the Temple, who demands the respect due to one of the Nine. Surely, my lady, even in the western demesnes, you know this.”

“Leave me,” Gwenvere ordered. “Both of you.”

Morgana pointed her long forefinger at the table. “What is in that jar?”

“That is none of your affair.”

“Anything that affects the king is my affair.”

“I will speak to Arthur about your behavior!”

“I think you will not, Gwenvere,” Morgana said. She kept her tone light. “I am confident you do not want your husband knowing what you intend to do.”

Gwenvere spun away, her dressing gown swirling around her slender legs. She stood before the window, her hands on her hips. “Get out!” she cried, without looking back. “Both of you! Out!”

Morgana nodded to Braithe, who raised her eyebrows. Morgana took up the corked jar from the table, and then, gesturing to Braithe to precede her, she led the way out of the queen’s bedchamber.

They paused just outside the closed door to enjoy Gwenvere’s screech of horror when she realized the jar was gone.