Page 51 of The Faerie Morgana

“I have neither the time nor the energy to delve into the reasons you no longer wish to be my wife’s companion, Braithe.”

Her heart chilled at this, and she set her jaw to keep from crying out how unfair it was.

“I know you to be a kind and generous girl,” he went on. “And Gwenvere is a lovely person, if perhaps a little shy.”

Shy. Inadvertently, Braithe’s hand rose to touch her cheek, the one Gwenvere had slapped. The bruise had faded, but the skin was still tender.

“I gather there has been some misunderstanding between you, and I’m asking you—for my sake, which is perhaps not fair, but is necessary—to mend matters between you. She has no friends here as yet, and when I’m away, she is lonely.”

Braithe had to look away from him. She gazed at the few ornaments he allowed in his apartment: a Roman amphora gifted to Uther, a filigreed silver chalice, a painted figure she knew was meant to be the Lady, although only one person alive knew what she had looked like.

These objects barely registered with her as her mind tumbled over what he was asking of her, and how she would respond.

There really was no decision to be made, of course, and her heart knew that before it reached her head. He had asked her to do it for his sake, and she would always agree to that. Always.

She turned her eyes back to him. “Of course, sir,” she said. “For your sake.”

She thought, for one terrible moment, that his eyes sparkled with tears. He said, in a voice resonating with sadness and worry, “Thank you.” He put his hand on his heart. “I am grateful.”

She inclined her head to him. “I will go to her now, my lord.”

He nodded and turned back to the window, his hands linked behind his back.

She had no doubt that he felt he had managed one challenge, and that his thoughts had spun on to the next.

She left him to it and went in search of the queen.

As she went, she racked her brain for a way to explain this capitulation to Morgana.

Braithe found the queen in her chamber, fussing with the drape of a new gown, snapping instructions at Loria. When Braithe came in, Loria looked as if she could have wept with relief. She backed swiftly away and muttered something about an errand in the kitchen.

When she was gone, Gwenvere turned to Braithe, her hands on her hips. “Did I not tell you my husband would make you return to my service?”

Braithe narrowed her eyes, searching for the woman behind the queen’s facade. The image was there, but it was unclear. She caught only a glimpse before Gwenvere’s usual appearance steadied, hiding it. Braithe lifted her chin. “I could not say no to my king.”

“Good.” Gwenvere dropped her hands and began to twitch the embroidered linen of her gown. “Now come and do something about this material! It won’t hang right.”

“I will try, my lady, but I must tell you something first.”

Gwenvere clicked her tongue. “If you must! But I want to wear this tonight, and—”

Braithe interrupted. “You have underestimated me, my lady.”

Gwenvere shot her an amused look. “Have I indeed, Braithe? I think I am quite capable of estimating a cottar’s daughter.”

Braithe folded her arms tightly. “I want you to know that you are never to strike me again. Or Loria, or any of your maids.”

Gwenvere barked a laugh. It was a nasty sound, utterly at odds with her graceful appearance. “I am the queen,” she snarled. “I take no orders from such as you, Braithe of the Temple. You are no one.”

“You will take this order, my lady, or there will be consequences.”

“Consequences! Do you think you have any power over me?”

“As you say, I am a maiden of the Temple. I am adept at tinctures and potions, and knowledgeable with all manner of herbs.” Braithe let her arms fall, sure of herself now.

She let her voice drop to an intimate pitch.

“I can put something in your food that will make you very ill. It will ruin your looks, perhaps even make your hair fall out.”

Gwenvere stared at her, struck mute. After a shocked moment, she exclaimed, “You would not dare!”

“Try it and see, my lady,” Braithe said.

“Arthur would have you banished!”

“The king would never believe it.”

“He will if I want him to!”

Braithe nodded. “Yes, I suppose. You do have some unusual power over him, do you not? Perhaps the priestess and I should—”

“Never mind!” Gwenvere snapped. “I have no intention of striking you again, in any case, now that you have come back.”

Braithe moved forward then and spoke in her usual tone. “I will have a look at your gown, but remember what I said. Please do not doubt that I mean every word.”

It was late that night when Braithe was free to go to Morgana’s apartment. She found the priestess in bed, still dressed, but fast asleep. She tried to tiptoe back out of the room, but Morgana stirred, and her eyelids lifted. “Braithe? Is that you?”

“Yes. I’m sorry I woke you.”

Morgana sat up and looked down at herself with surprise. “I am still in my robe.”

“I will help you change now, if you like. And brush out your hair.”

“Where were you?”

Braithe took Morgana’s nightdress from its hook and carried it to her.

As Morgana slid it over her head, Braithe took the black robe and smoothed its creases before she hung it up.

When she turned, Morgana was at the washstand, splashing water over her face.

Braithe waited to speak until Morgana sat at the dressing table and she had picked up the brush to begin untangling the priestess’s hair.

“I had no intention of waiting upon the queen again,” she murmured.

Morgana stiffened, and her eyes met Braithe’s in the mirror. “She forced you.”

“No. Unless we count persuading the king to intervene as forcing.”

“Did he do that?”

“He asked me to return to her as a favor to himself. I could not bring myself to refuse.”

Morgana blew an exasperated breath. “I will speak to him.”

Braithe put down the brush and rested her hands on Morgana’s shoulders. “Priestess, you mean well, and I’m grateful, but I wish you would not do that.”

“Why, brat?” Morgana said. She reached up one of her long hands to cover Braithe’s small one. “After what she did, I would think—”

“Yes, she struck me. But she won’t do it again.”

“How do you know that?”

Braithe picked up the brush again. “Because I told her if she did, I would put something awful in the food I bring, and she would get really sick.”

Morgana choked on a laugh. “You did not! Brat, tell me the truth.”

Braithe took up the weight of Morgana’s hair and tied it with a thong. Morgana rose, but she didn’t go back to her bed. She leaned one hip on the dressing table, waiting for Braithe to tell her everything.

Braithe smiled up at her. “Like you, I am devoted to the king.” She shrugged a little. “Perhaps too much, but he is a great ruler and a good man. He deserves better than Gwenvere.”

“Of course he does. But, dear little brat…”

Braithe’s smile faded. “I know it could never be me, but that doesn’t change my feelings. Like you, I vowed to serve and protect King Arthur of Lloegyr, and that includes protecting him from a girl from the western demesnes who thinks only of herself.”

“And she believed your threat?”

“I think I convinced her,” Braithe said lightly.

Morgana said, “You amaze me. I wish I had been there to hear that.”

Braithe moved around Morgana to straighten the things on her dressing table. “I went back to Gwenvere’s service because King Arthur asked me to. Fortunately for me, he didn’t order me to like either it or her, nor do I.”

“I doubt this is the last confrontation you will have with her.”

“I am sure it is not. But I will be ready.”

“You would not really poison her.”

Braithe looked up, and Morgana saw blue fire in her eyes. In a voice so hard Morgana almost didn’t recognize it, Braithe said, “I think I would.”