Page 54 of The Faerie Morgana

Braithe had to wake Bran in order to learn where Sir Lancelin’s bedchamber was.

She hurried down the stairs, past the lesser hall, down the corridor where the kitchen maids slept.

Bran had a small room of his own just behind the kitchen.

The cooks were already at work, bread put to bake and porridge simmering in the great iron pots. The ovens warmed the corridor.

The steward opened his door and blinked sleepily at her. His sparse gray hair stood up every which way from his scalp. “Is something wrong, Braithe?”

“No,” she whispered. “But Priestess Morgana asked me to deliver something to Sir Lancelin, and I don’t know where his room is.”

“Ah. The same floor as the king’s and queen’s chambers. The far end of the corridor.” He yawned. “He may still be asleep.”

“I know. Thank you, Bran.” Braithe left the steward staring curiously after her, scratching at his hair with his fingers.

She climbed the stairs as quietly as she could.

The courtiers who had chambers in the tower were still sleeping, but the nickers of horses and creaking wheels sounded from the other side of the keep. The war band was assembling.

She was not surprised, when Lancelin’s lackey opened his door, that the knight was already fully dressed in the blue tunic and plain leggings favored by the king, ready for his armor.

The lackey held the door for her, and she took one step inside the room, which was as plainly furnished as possible while still providing the necessities.

Lancelin laid down the glove he had just picked up.

“Braithe, isn’t it?” he said. “One of the priestesses?”

“Braithe, yes.” She gave a small bow. “I am Priestess Morgana’s handmaid.” She held out the charm. “She sends you this, upon request of the king.”

He came to take it from her. He was much taller than she, so that she had to tilt her head up to meet his gaze.

His eyes were compelling, nearly black, shining with intelligence.

Braithe felt the touch of his long fingers as he accepted the charm and was reminded of the way Morgana’s felt, cool and strong and sensitive.

“You are to wear it on this thong,” she said, unwinding it from her wrist. Having to wear Gwenvere’s elaborate wrapped gowns meant she had no pocket.

She gave him the thong, and he deftly threaded it through the loop at the top of the silver amulet and tied it around his neck.

“Beneath your tunic, sir,” Braithe added. “Against your heart.”

He nodded and dropped the charm inside his shirt. “Is that all there is to it?”

“Yes,” she said. “Priestess Morgana prepared the herbs herself and dedicated the charm to you. It is specially charged with the power of the Lady, our patroness.”

“What does it do?”

“I am to tell you that it’s a charm of deception. The intention is that it will be difficult for the enemy to perceive you accurately. They will think you are in one place, but you are in another. They will believe your sword comes from one side, but it comes from the opposite.”

He said with appreciation, “That seems useful.”

“We believe so.”

“I would like to thank her.”

“She is resting now. When you return, you can thank her in person.” She stepped back, away from him. “Safe home, Sir Lancelin.”

He placed his hand over his tunic, just where the charm showed its outline beneath the fabric. “Tell the priestess I dedicate the coming victory to her.”

“She will be glad of it.” Braithe bent her head again and left him.

The next days were anxious ones in Camulod.

The knights who had been left to defend the castle were silent, tight-jawed.

When Prince Mordred wasn’t gazing out through the barred gates watching for his brother’s return, he roamed the keep, restless and anxious.

He refused to work with his tutor, but he badgered the armorer to give him a real sword to practice with.

Everyone was tense with waiting, the cooks and laundresses, the men working in the abattoir, the farmers who brought produce in through the farmer’s gate.

Word had spread of the swelling of the Saxon ranks and the atrocities they had already committed, but no one knew what was true and what was exaggeration.

Two bands of refugees had arrived within a day of the departure of Arthur and his knights.

One was a group of eight women and a dozen children, sent by the men of their hamlet to safety while they stayed behind to protect their homes and livestock.

The women were tired and their children hungry, but none were injured.

The other was a single family, cottars who worked a remote bit of land, who had been awakened in the night by a trio of Saxon invaders who had abandoned their leaders in search of easy takings.

They had killed the head of the family and badly wounded the eldest son.

The mother, a woman of fifty years, had taken up her husband’s ancient sword and driven it through the body of the one of the Saxons, only to have one of the others cut her down as if she mattered less than a fox or a rabbit.

The survivors were hollow-eyed and silent, and so grimy it took three buckets of warm water to discover what was dirt and what was blood on all of them.

Morgana and Braithe did what they could, but the eldest son of the family, who had managed to bring them to Camulod and safety, died of his wounds hours after their arrival.

As they worked to care for those who were left, Morgana swore under her breath, “By the hand of the Lady, I am tempted to break my faith and curse these Saxons.”

“I’ll do it,” Braithe said. “I hope the king and his knights slaughter them to the last man, every evil Saxon, and I will make an intention that it be so.”

“You will use no magic to that end,” Morgana said tersely.

Braithe glanced at the priestess’s grim face. “I have none to use.”

Morgana eyes flashed pure gold. “I believed that once, brat. I no longer do.”

Braithe sensed Morgana’s anxiety as the king’s absence, and that of his knights, lengthened, and she shared it.

They were busy for a time with the refugees, but once Bran had settled those people in rooms beneath the inner curve of the wall, there was little to do but worry.

Several times, when she could escape Gwenvere’s demands, Braithe found the priestess scattering the stones, peering into their patterns for answers. If she received any, she didn’t say.

Ten days passed, and all of Camulod grew uneasily quiet.

One afternoon Braithe, sent to fetch a cup of cider for the queen, came upon Morgana alone in the kitchen.

A vat of broth bubbled on the hob in the enormous fireplace, and Morgana crouched before it, her black robe falling in folds around her knees as she gazed into the steam.

Braithe said, “Priestess?” but Morgana threw up a hand for silence.

Braithe stood where she was, her hands pressed together before her breast. She narrowed her eyes, wishing she could perceive what it was that Morgana saw in the billows of steam, but she saw only waves of moisture rising from the hot vat to dissipate against the timbered ceiling.

One of the kitchen maids appeared in the doorway, and a moment later, two more joined her.

Braithe motioned to them to stay back. Wide-eyed, they obeyed, clustering in the corridor in respectful silence.

For once, Braithe was glad they all believed her to be a priestess. It created the illusion of authority.

At last, when it seemed Morgana’s knees must begin to cramp, the priestess clapped her hands together and pushed herself to her feet.

She saw the servants lined up in the corridor, waiting to come in, and she nodded to them.

“Thank you,” she said gravely. “You will be glad to know that the king is on his way back to Camulod, and he is victorious.”

A maid, who Braithe thought had an attachment to one of the lackeys, burst out, “Is everyone safe?”

Morgana had started out of the kitchen, but in the corridor she paused before the maid, who blushed furiously under her regard. “I wish I could tell you that,” Morgana said. “I cannot see such details.”

The girl held Morgana’s gaze, but tears spilled down her plain face, and the woman next to her put an arm around her shoulders. “At least,” the girl said, in a voice on the point of breaking, “victory for the king.”

“Yes,” Morgana said. “We will know the details soon enough. Try not to worry.”

Braithe, forgetting Gwenvere’s cider, followed Morgana up the stairs.

She was surprised when Morgana climbed past the level of her bedchamber and went on until she reached the door that led out onto the courtine.

The priestess didn’t pause until she reached a bench that faced the mountains to the south, a place Braithe had not seen before.

She settled herself and patted the spot next to her to invite Braithe to do the same.

Summer was fading, burnishing the hazel and alder leaves in the forest around the castle.

Braithe, croft-born-and-bred, recognized the difference in the slant of the light, especially as evening began to close in.

Everything took on a golden hue, the harbinger of autumn, beginning the slow farewell to sunny days and warm soil beneath the feet.

She wondered what her mother was doing now, or her brothers and sisters.

It would be harvesttime, with hay to cut and pile in round stacks for the winter, wood to collect against the coming cold.

They would be sunburned, hungry from their labors, exhausted at the end of each day.

Did they have enough to eat? Did they ever think of her?

By this time they could have forgotten there was ever another girl in the house.

Diffidently, should Morgana not care to speak of it, she asked, “What did you see in the steam?”