Page 56 of The Faerie Morgana

The Blackbird had a lacquered blue bowl in his room that he kept full of water for the purpose of scrying.

Despite the undeniable weakening of his deep sight over the years, when he looked into the shimmer of the water, he also saw Arthur and his band returning, the pennant of victory flying proudly above them.

He had seen something else, too, and that worried him. It had kept him wakeful all through the night.

The Blackbird had hardly set foot outside of his small chamber at the top of the western tower in weeks, but now he asked Marcus, the servingman who had been waiting upon him in his aerie, to find Braithe.

She was usually at Gwenvere’s side, but he hoped she could visit him before the triumphant fighters returned.

Marcus carried away his message and returned with word that Braithe would come to him as soon as she had assisted dressing the queen.

The Blackbird had never paid much attention to the way women looked.

He was more or less indifferent to whether they were old, young, tall, short.

He had always had trouble with the concept of feminine beauty, no doubt because of his lifelong habit of disinterest. He understood, in a vague way, that the priestess Morgana was a striking woman, especially since her long hair had turned silver, but it was not something he thought about.

He was startled, then, when Braithe arrived at his door, by her appearance.

Her fair curls clung to her freckled cheeks, and her blue eyes were clear and wide.

She was delightfully plump, and when she smiled a greeting, she flashed charming dimples.

Morgana’s little handmaid had grown up while he had secluded himself.

Her manners matched. She bowed courteously and said, “Sir, I was glad to receive your request. It’s good to see you looking well.”

The Blackbird harrumphed and made some response, but he was pleased.

It had not been planned that Morgana should have a handmaid, but this girl had been a good choice to assist the priestess, and she had acquired impressive poise.

It was too bad the queen should take up so much of her time, but the Blackbird had reason to believe that would not continue for much longer.

It was for this reason he had summoned her.

“Sit.” His voice was dry and thin in his own ears, and he supposed he should use it more often. He pointed at a stool beside his tiny table.

“Thank you, sir,” Braithe said, as if it had been a polite invitation.

The Blackbird slumped opposite her, gripping his staff. His chair had uneven legs and rocked beneath him when he settled into it. “I need your assistance, Braithe,” he said.

She tilted her head, assessing this. “Do you mean you wish me to ask the priestess to help with something?”

“No!” he said, with too much force. Braithe blinked, but she didn’t flinch. No doubt having to serve the fractious queen had taught her to hold her composure. Truly, she had become a polished young lady. He said, in a milder tone, “No. It is you I need in this case.”

“What can I do for you, sir?”

“You are no doubt aware that I occasionally scry,” he said.

“I am.” Her eyes were steady, and her hands relaxed in her lap. Usually his presence made people nervous, but nothing in her demeanor gave that away.

“I have seen something that alarms me,” he said.

Braithe’s brow furrowed suddenly, and the facade of her composure cracked, just a bit. “Not the king?”

“As it happens, no.” Her brow smoothed again. He supposed that, like Morgana, she felt that the safety of the true king mattered above all else. It was another admirable quality, and he felt a flicker of something like affection for the girl.

He pulled his staff against his shoulder, feeling the smoothness of the bogwood where his palm had rubbed it so many times. “I saw a—let us call it a conflict—between Priestess Morgana and Queen Gwenvere.”

“A conflict? An argument?”

“A physical conflict.”

Braithe’s brow furrowed again, but this time it was clear she was thinking what to say. The Blackbird said, “You can tell me anything, Braithe. I am more than discreet. I have withdrawn from the court for so long I now speak to almost no one but Marcus.”

Braithe put her fingers to her lips while she considered this. Finally, she said, “Yes, sir, I will confide in you. The thing—the problem—is that the queen is given to outbursts.”

“Temper?”

Braithe’s lips flattened into a sour line that did not become her, and she abandoned her careful manner.

“Tantrums is a better word,” she said sharply.

“She struck me. She throws things at her servants. It is said that in her own demesne she pushed a servant down the stairs and the woman never walked again.”

“I trust you have told the priestess these things?”

“Yes. The king asked me to be a companion to his new bride, and for his sake, I have done so, but my first loyalty is to Priestess Morgana. I mean—aside from the king himself, of course.”

“I see.” The Blackbird absently rubbed the already smooth spot on his staff. “I presume Arthur knows nothing of these things.”

“That’s correct, sir. He will hear nothing against her, and I have not tried to tell him. I know he would not listen.”

“A young man in love is oblivious to his beloved’s faults, I believe.”

“But she—the queen, I mean—does not love the king.” Braithe hesitated, averting her gaze for a moment, then faced him with eyes that glistened with anger. “Sir, she aborted his child!”

The Blackbird stiffened and thumped his staff against the floor. “This is true? Are you sure?”

“By the hand of the Lady, I swear it.”

The Blackbird pulled at his beard as he wondered how Arthur had come to make such a mistake in his bride. He supposed kingcraft did not encompass an understanding of women, but this was a grave fault. It worried him. He said, half to himself, “Some would call that treason.”

“Some would say that of a king who poisoned his son and heir, too, sir!”

Wearily, the Blackbird nodded. “They would. We walk among vipers, Braithe, we who deal with the highborn.”

“Will you tell me what you saw, sir? The conflict?”

“I will try. My scrying is not so clear as Morgana’s, and my deep sight has to fill in the confusing things.

But I saw, or I believe I saw, Queen Gwenvere and Morgana on top of the courtine.

Morgana stood still, in that imposing way she has, and the queen was screaming at her, then lunging at her.

Now that you have told me what she’s capable of, I am even more alarmed. ”

Braithe’s answer was drowned by the blaring of horns from the gatehouse.

“The king has returned,” the Blackbird said.

“I must go down,” Braithe said. “But tell me what you want me to do.”

“I fear it is unpleasant for you, but I need you to watch Queen Gwenvere, especially if she thinks she’s alone.”

“How—” Braithe lifted her small hands in confusion.

“I have prepared a charm for you,” the Blackbird said. “Of course you can refuse it. Many would. But I am concerned for the priestess’s safety, and she is as important to Lloegyr as is the king.”

Braithe stared at him in astonishment. “As the king?” she breathed.

“Indeed. Priestess Morgana is part of the Lady’s plan.”

“But what can I do? I am only a handmaid.”

“You are wise beyond your years, Braithe, and I think you have already sensed that there is some dark force at work here in Camulod.”

She bit her lip. “I do feel something, sir, but I couldn’t tell you its source.”

“Nor, to my shame, can I. But I know it’s there.”

“And you want me to wear a charm?”

“I have everything I need to make it.”

“But what sort of charm could it be, sir? I do not go into battle.”

The Blackbird gave a dry chuckle. “Oh, I think you do, little Braithe. I think you do.”

Braithe touched the amulet through the fabric of her gown.

The Blackbird had explained to her that it would make her aware of the queen’s movements.

“You will sense her,” he had said in his reedy voice.

“If she rises in the night, you will know. If she is someplace you hadn’t expected her to be, you will feel it.

If she follows Morgana, my hope is that you will sense the danger, and go after them. ”

She had asked how such a charm could be created, but his explanation was too brief for her to really understand.

Morgana was good about describing her process, but the Blackbird was impatient, terse, noting things like several hairs from the queen’s head, a scrap of fabric from one of her numerous gowns, one of her slippers.

He didn’t say how he had acquired these things, but she guessed Marcus was his source.

A servingman could go in and out of the various chambers and apartments without drawing attention.

The Blackbird had not spoken of the rift between himself and Priestess Morgana.

And though Braithe had been blunt about what she knew and had witnessed, she had not found the courage to ask about it.

When he urged her to tell no one about the charm and its purpose, she said, “Not even Priestess Morgana?” and he had shaken his head.

In the keep, the main gates were already open.

Prince Mordred, grown tall and thin in the way of boys on the verge of manhood, stood with Queen Gwenvere at the head of a welcome party.

Morgana was at one side of the crowd that had gathered, her basket propped on her hip.

Braithe hurried to her side, but she watched Gwenvere, wondering. Would she feel her, even now?

She did not. The queen looked as beautiful as she usually did, wearing one of her elaborate gowns, with her intricate pale plaits shining in the midday sun.

Mordred, beside her, stood straight and still, doing his best to look manly.

Bran had organized the staff to take the wounded to the barracks, and they waited in solemn rows.

Several burly men in black tunics stood to one side, waiting to deal with the dead.

The sounds of funeral pyres being built already came from the forest clearing.

Everyone in the keep was silent, eager to see the victors, dreading the discovery of which men had not survived the fighting.

Morgana whispered, “Where have you been?”

Braithe muttered something about helping Loria clean the queen’s apartment. It could have been an awkward moment, and Morgana would quickly detect any untruth, but the first horsemen clattered through the gates, forestalling any further talk.

The autumn afternoon had turned hot, as if in memory of the summer just past. Most of the returning warriors had pulled off their helmets, some even their armor.

Perspiration ran down dirty faces. Many wore torn tunics, and some had soiled bandages wound around their arms or legs.

Despite the pennants declaring their victory, they made a haggard troupe.

Arthur rode at the head, but it was a ceremonial act.

The moment they were within the gates, he dismounted and strode back to the cart carrying the wounded.

Lancelin also slid down from his saddle and hastened to assist.

Braithe felt the tension around her as the women stood on tiptoe, searching among the knights and foot soldiers for their loved ones.

Cries of relief mixed with repressed sobs.

Morgana led Braithe through the crowd toward the east tower to await the wounded.

Braithe averted her eyes from the cart where blankets crusted with blood and dirt covered the bodies of the dead.

She was just stepping out of the sun and into the shade of the barracks when she glanced back to see Arthur going to greet the queen at last, and to clasp Mordred’s thin shoulder.

He was bareheaded except for his coronet.

His hair hung in unwashed hanks to his shoulders, and his blue tunic was sweat-drenched and dirty.

She thought he looked glorious. When Gwenvere threw her arms around his neck with an exaggerated cry of joy, Braithe gritted her teeth against a wave of disgust, then turned to follow Morgana into the barracks.

Braithe and Morgana labored long that day. At times Braithe had to run back to the priestess’s chamber to replenish her supplies. The maids stayed in the barracks to fetch water, wind bandages, hold the hands of men in pain.

Arthur, having washed and donned a fresh tunic and leggings, came to help.

Braithe’s heart swelled with pride to see him stanching a freshly bleeding wound or standing shoulder to shoulder with Morgana as she worked to set a broken leg.

He touched his men’s shoulders, held cups of water to their lips, brought them pillows and blankets.

Once Braithe saw him carrying a chamber pot out toward the latrine, until one of the servingmen hurried to take it from him.

By nightfall, the wounded men were settled. Morgana muttered thanks to the Lady that no more had died. Braithe murmured the stanza:

Beyond the darkness, light.

Beneath the waters, earth.

After despair, hope.

Morgana said wearily, “Perhaps you should be a priestess after all, brat.”

Braithe shook her head. “No chair of the Nine would fit me, Priestess. I’m too small. In every way.”