Page 52 of The Faerie Morgana

P eace reigned for a time at Camulod. The knights still met in Arthur’s council chamber, but no reports of attacks or incursion arrived, and they congratulated themselves on having driven the Romans and the Saxons away, at least for the foreseeable future.

They spent their afternoons with the arms master and the long summer evenings in revelry, joined by their ladies.

Arthur hired traveling minstrels and acrobats, and everyone in the castle gathered in the keep to enjoy the entertainment.

Morgana disliked crowds, but she looked down from her window on such evenings, glad to see the maids and servingmen laughing and dancing alongside the courtiers, rank and privilege set aside for the moment.

With Arthur in residence, Gwenvere behaved as a good queen, a compliant wife, a charming hostess.

Braithe reported to Morgana that Gwenvere regularly used a potion procured from the old woman in the woods.

Braithe felt certain it was meant to prevent another conception.

Morgana scowled over that, but there seemed no point in telling Arthur.

He was starry-eyed in love with his queen and had convinced himself that everyone at Camulod felt the same about her.

Morgana asked Arthur twice to release her to return to the Isle, but each time he begged her to stay. “I need you here, sister,” he said, taking her hand. “I feel the kingdom is safer with you at hand.”

“But you have your charm, my lord. You have only to wear it, and you are protected.”

“I do wear it,” he assured her. “But when we must fight—and we will again, despite this lull—you and Braithe are indispensable in treating wounds and injuries.” He added, with a small, indulgent smile, “And Gwenvere needs Braithe. She has no other women friends.”

Morgana could have said And she never will , but she refrained. How someone as wise as her half brother could be so mistaken in a woman mystified her. The idea that infatuation could fool someone so thoroughly troubled her mind.

She had tried once again to learn something about Gwenvere, but when she looked into her scrying bowl, the water turned cloudy and dark, as if the bowl were full of mud.

She knew something was amiss, but she could not grasp it.

It was as elusive as a dream that slips away in the moment of waking.

Whatever it was, it had confused the king, and it confounded her.

Nothing in her experience had ever produced a result anything like it.

She wished with all her heart she could go to the Blackbird for counsel.

He must have seen the like in his long life.

Bemused, she said to Arthur, “If you wish me to remain, of course I will, sir,” but the promise gave her no joy.

The midsummer celebration was an occasion for a great feast in the keep.

The residents of the castle joined those from outside the walls to celebrate with cider and ale and wine.

A great boar roasted on a spit, and the kitchens produced platter after platter of cheese and bread, beans and onions simmered in broth, carrots and turnips and potatoes fried with bacon, and hand pies filled with berries and sweetened with honey from the hives behind the castle.

Morgana watched the festivities from her window.

She saw Braithe seated on the dais with Gwenvere and Arthur.

Braithe was wearing what appeared to be one of Gwenvere’s gowns, and Morgana wondered when she had put off the simple brown robe that marked her as a Temple maiden.

She supposed Braithe had no choice in the matter.

She did look very pretty in the gown, and she glowed with something like happiness, as she always did when Arthur was near.

Morgana speculated, in a halfhearted way, about where the Blackbird might be.

He had become alarmingly reclusive. She had not seen him since the wedding, though she thought of him often.

His presence, secluded in his aerie, was like a single dark cloud in a summer sky, casting a small gray shadow over the golden brilliance that was Camulod.

Feeling lonely and out of sorts, Morgana climbed the stairs that led out to the walk along the courtine.

The noises of the celebration in the keep faded at that height, but the long light of high summer still brought sparkles from the wall and warmed the stones beneath her feet.

She walked south of the tower, where the wall circled above the vegetable gardens and fruit orchards.

There was a niche halfway along, where some imaginative builder had set a bench into the inner curve of the wall so a walker could sit and look to the south, where the mountains swelled between Camulod and the distant sea.

Morgana settled there, stretching out her legs, leaning against the sun-warmed stones, tipping her face up into the fading light.

She closed her eyes to let the dying warmth of the sun bathe her eyelids.

“Well met, Priestess. I would guess you like the crowds as little as I do.”

Morgana startled and opened her eyes. She knew his voice, of course. It was as distinctive as her own, deep and resonant. It matched his long body and narrow face, and she felt its vibrant tone in her bones. “Sir Lancelin,” she said, and started to get up.

He put out a hand. “No, sit, Priestess, I beg you. I won’t stay long.”

She sat down again. “I am usually alone in this spot.”

Lancelin looked south to where feathery clouds, rosy now with the setting sun, clung to the timeworn peaks of the ancient mountains.

“It’s peaceful up here.” He leaned against the wall behind him and folded his arms. “I dislike being among a lot of people,” he murmured. “Too much like going to war.”

“It can be hard to find peace, and it seems to have too brief a span.”

“A sad thing for us all. I was born for war, I fear,” Lancelin said. “I’ve known that since I was a small boy.”

“Ah. And I was born for the Temple, though I didn’t understand what that meant for a long time.”

He turned his dark gaze down to her. “Does it please you?”

She met his gaze with her own. His eyes widened, and she supposed her eyes had gone gold in the failing light, as they often did. “It does.”

“They say you are very powerful.”

The corner of her mouth curled. “Let us be honest. They say I am a witch.”

He didn’t exactly smile, but his mouth softened. “Are you, Priestess? Are you a witch?”

She didn’t smile, either, but speaking with him this way pleased her somehow. It made her heart feel lighter and her pulse quicken in an unfamiliar way. She answered, “I think not, sir, but in truth, I could not explain what it is to be a witch.”

“People in the northern demesnes believe witches curse people who anger them.”

“In that case, I am not a witch. I do not deal in curses.”

Lancelin’s dark gaze brightened, just a little. He said, “The ability to curse people might be a convenient one to have.”

“It is not the way of the Lady. I was trained to be direct when there is conflict.”

He nodded approval of this. “It’s the same with war. To skewer someone in the back is shameful in battle. When I kill a man, I look into his face.”

“I believe my half brother shares your view of honor in war.”

“King Arthur is a great leader and a role model for those of us who fight. It’s a privilege to join his forces.”

Morgana let her gaze drift to the mountains again, where the rosy color had begun to recede from the sparse clouds, leaving them a dull shade like spent embers.

Shadows stretched long over the courtine, but behind and below them, the sounds of revelry did not lessen.

She mused, “Lloegyr has waited a long time for such a king.”

“The true king,” Lancelin said.

She cast him a sidelong glance to ascertain that he was sincere.

The gravity of his expression assured her that he was, and the unfamiliar feeling in her breast intensified.

She had the odd thought that she would always remember this moment, this instant of accord between herself and a man she barely knew but whose presence—not only beside her but in Camulod—felt important.

Fated, and yet, somehow, not entirely benevolent.

She wanted to be here, sharing this moment, but it felt risky, like walking too close to the edge of the wall.

He didn’t help matters when he said, “Do you know, Priestess Morgana, your hair shines in the darkness as if it were filled with stars.” She shivered.

The idyll lasted for weeks before new reports of Saxon attacks came from the western demesnes. Arthur mustered his knights and their lackeys and set out to defend Gwenvere’s homeland, but first, he came to Morgana to beg her help.

“Sister,” he said, taking her hand when she came into his council chamber.

“Priestess. Can I prevail upon you for another charm?” He released her hand and palmed the charm he always wore, the silver one that had no seams, that had belonged to the Lady herself.

“I would have Sir Lancelin protected as I am. He is a magnificent fighter, and the men follow him gladly.”

“I am sorry, my lord,” Morgana said. “There must not be more than one charm like the one you bear. Its power would be diluted. Weakened.”

“Not just one more?”

“Not even one.”

Arthur bent his head, thinking about this. After a moment he looked up. “Is there anything you can do for him?”

It was her turn to ponder. She let her gaze stray to the window as she thought.

She turned back to him with a troubled heart.

“There is a minor charm for deception, which means one’s actions are not accurately perceived.

I have never made it, because I dislike the idea, but such deception may be useful in battle. ”

“It may indeed,” Arthur said. “Our scout tells us the Saxon war band is large and fierce, and it worries me. They have already overrun the demesne just to the north of Gwenvere’s home, and she naturally fears for her family.”