Page 49 of The Faerie Morgana
Gwenvere tilted her head, giving Morgana her slantwise green look. “There is no need to tell him, then.”
“Not now. But I wish you to listen to me carefully. If Loria, or any of your maids—or Braithe, or the woman who made your potion—is harmed in any way, my brother will know everything. We do not abuse our servants in Camulod.”
Gwenvere’s eyelids dropped, then lifted sleepily. “I must ask you to leave me now, Priestess,” she said. “I am very tired.”
“A spoonful of the tincture every hour,” Morgana said. She turned to the door, pausing with her hand on the latch. “I advise you against doing this ever again. I don’t know the woman who created the potion you took, but there is danger there. The king will be devastated if you die.”
“Die!” Gwenvere’s eyelids snapped up.
“A spoonful every hour,” Morgana repeated, then opened the door and went out, closing it firmly behind her.
Braithe and Morgana had chosen to have a quiet dinner in Morgana’s apartment. They were just finishing when the horns sounded from the main gate. Morgana put down her wineglass. “Arthur,” she said.
Braithe touched her breastbone with her finger. “Yes. I feel it.”
“I am sorry for that.”
Braithe shook her head. “Never mind.” She added in an offhand tone, “You know he will never hear a word against her.”
“It’s very strange. I believe Arthur has always been thought to be a good judge of character.” Morgana rose and took up a shawl from a nearby chair. “Here, take this, Braithe. Your robe is thinner than mine.”
Braithe smiled her thanks and wound the shawl around her shoulders as the two of them went out to meet the returning warriors.
Prince Mordred was at the head of the welcoming committee, standing on tiptoe, searching for his elder brother among the mounted knights.
Morgana and Braithe stood just outside the tower door, watching as the war party rode through the main gate.
The stablemen and armorers rushed to meet them from the east tower, while Mordred and Bran, several house servants, and a dozen courtiers hurried from the west tower to stand in a group, scanning the returning knights and the foot soldiers who followed them.
The evening sky was still summer pale, with only a few faint stars sparkling here and there.
Everyone could see how weary the war party was, how footsore the soldiers, but they were grateful to see that there were no horses carrying corpses, and only a handful of men appeared to be injured at all.
The blue war banners, bearing Arthur’s crest in black, flew proudly above the returning fighters.
Arthur, as was his wont, walked with the foot soldiers while his horse carried a wounded man in its saddle.
Mordred was about to step forward to greet his brother when Gwenvere, now dressed in a floating gown of pale green, her hair flowing loose down her back, ran past him with light steps.
She held out her arms to Arthur, who relinquished his horse’s rein to a stableman and went to meet her.
As the king embraced the queen, a little sigh rippled through the watching courtiers and some of the servants.
Morgana said, “At least he is unharmed, brat.”
“By the Lady’s hand. And your charm.”
“Indeed.” As Arthur turned toward his young brother to grasp his shoulder, the charm shone bright against his tunic, and Morgana admitted to a little swell of pride. The true king had returned safely once again.
The people realized, once they looked past the charming picture of the reunited king and queen, that more knights were coming through the gate.
A single banner flew above their party, striped yellow and white.
As the riders came forward, their leader pulled off his helmet and tucked it under his arm.
His hair was long and dark, his body lean beneath his armor.
Braithe asked, “Who is that?” but Morgana didn’t know the answer.
Arthur held up his arm to ask for silence, and the murmuring and exclamations died away.
“Friends of Camulod,” he said, in a carrying voice.
“We have succeeded in quelling the Saxon incursion. Our casualties are few, but there were deaths among the knights from the northern demesnes who fought beside us. These men have come to join Camulod. I know you will welcome them.”
The leader of the northern force flung one long leg over his saddle and slid to the ground.
He came to stand beside Arthur, inclining his head to the king.
He was a head taller, long of arm and leg, solemn of countenance.
His face, when he raised it, was also long, with a prominent nose and a strong jaw.
Arthur clapped the knight’s shoulder. “This is a courageous man, my friends. He fought bravely for his lord, who was tragically one of the dead. He has decided to throw his lot in with me, for which I am grateful.”
The stranger inclined his head once again and turned a grave, darkling glance out to the now-silent crowd. “I am glad to be one of you,” he said, in a deep voice that rang against the stones. “And I bring these knights with me to swell the ranks.”
“Thank you,” Arthur said. He flashed his winning smile at his people, an expression perfectly judged between gravity and pride. “Out of loss has come some good in the cause of Lloegyr. My friends, I give you Sir Lancelin.”
There were bows, murmurs of welcome, a gurgle of appreciation among the kitchen maids.
Gwenvere held out her hand to Sir Lancelin, and he bowed over it.
Mordred stepped forward to be introduced.
The courtiers took their turns in greeting him as the stablemen led the horses away and Bran began organizing the wounded.
That was the signal that Morgana would be needed.
She said, “Braithe. Please fetch my basket.” As Braithe trotted away to do her bidding, she stepped up to Bran to help him decide which of the injured needed attention first. For one suspended moment she looked away from the task to take in the new knight, this Sir Lancelin of the northern demesnes, and she wondered at the odd tremor she felt in her breast. It was not premonition.
It was not fear or anxiety. What, she wondered, could that be?