Page 57 of The Faerie Morgana

Morgana did not see Lancelin alone for some time after his return from the east. She was kept busy dispensing salves and syrups, preparing tinctures, foraging for herbs when they ran out.

She worked until she nearly fell asleep on her feet, and had no chance to go to the bench on top of the courtine.

The task of dealing with the dead fell to Lancelin, as the king’s principal lieutenant.

He spoke to bereaved families. He oversaw the compensation the king had set aside for those who lost husbands and sons and fathers.

He stood by the pyres as the remains were burned, and saw to it that the ashes were buried in a place declared sacred, with the names of the dead fighters carved into a bronze plaque by the king’s scribes.

He served as host for the somber observances afterward, reading the names of the casualties aloud while Bran served cider and ale and the traditional bitter bread made for such occasions.

Arthur joined Lancelin as the fires burned, but the queen did not. Braithe told Morgana that Gwenvere said the smell of burning bodies made her sick, so Morgana stood by her half brother’s side during the grim ceremony.

Braithe told her later that Gwenvere lost her temper at hearing that the witch-priestess had taken her place beside the pyre and had joined Arthur in offering condolences and coins to the bereaved.

“I reminded her that she refused when the king asked her to be there,” Braithe said.

“She threw a brush at me, and it flew right out the window and fell in the keep. Her face turned so red I thought her hair might catch fire.”

“I will speak to her,” Morgana said. “She is not to treat you that way.”

“You can try, Priestess, but I promise you, she listens to no one. And, I am sorry to say, most especially you.”

On the evening of the harvest celebration, Morgana found herself at last with a bit of free time.

The king had thanked her for her work and urged her to rest. Braithe took a light supper with her in her chamber and retired to her own room, Arthur’s presence having freed her for the moment from her service to Gwenvere.

Morgana, tired but restless, climbed the stairs to walk the top of the courtine.

It was a crisp, clear night, with a sliver of waxing moon and a thousand stars glittering over Camulod.

To the north, Ilyn gleamed through the branches of trees that had already given up their leaves.

To the south, between the gardens and the foothills, haymows dotted the fields, ghostly mounds against the yellow stubble left by the scythes.

Morgana walked slowly, grateful for the fresh air, for the relative silence from the barracks, for the quiet energy of the slender moon overhead.

When the nightjar sang from the boughs of a holm oak growing outside the wall, she bent forward to catch sight of her. “Did you say something to me?” she asked softly.

The bird sang again.

Morgana answered, “Yes, little sister. The snows are coming.”

“You speak to the birds?”

She straightened abruptly and turned to see that Lancelin had come up beside her, his soft boots silent against the stones. “You have left the celebration,” she said.

“Come, sit with me,” he said, pointing to the bench. “And yes. I believe I’ve told you how much I dislike crowds.”

They sat together. He stretched out his legs, sighing, and gestured to the south, where the mountains were silhouetted against the stars. “What do you suppose it’s like beyond the hills? I have never seen the sea.”

Morgana had seen it only from above, when flying as an owl, but she couldn’t tell him that. “Once I had a petitioner from the mountains. She said the sea is endless, and always moving.”

“I would like to see it.”

“You could go, could you not?”

“No. My duty is here.” He didn’t sound unhappy about it.

She said, “Mine, too, for now at least.” She had kept a careful distance between them, but he was close enough for her to feel the warmth of his long body through the chill of the night air. “Tell me, Sir Lancelin. Was it terrible?”

“Yes.” He shifted his shoulders against the stone at his back. “The Saxons are a bloodthirsty people. They don’t hesitate to kill anyone in their path, and they are crude and gruesome in battle.”

“They say it was a great victory for Lloegyr.”

Lancelin lifted his lean face up into the starlight. “We left no Saxons alive to attack our people again, but victory came at a great price.”

“I honor your work with the dead and those they left behind,” Morgana. “I know what a painful task that is.”

“Assuring wives and mothers that their husbands and sons died heroically is small comfort,” he said. He added, his deep voice thickening, “Their pain is so deep I felt I could touch it with my hand.”

“I understand.”

He turned his body enough to look into her face. “Do you? How? I thought, a Temple life… it sounds peaceful.”

She looked up into the stars as she searched for the words she wanted.

“At the Temple, supplicants bring me tragic accounts of death, illness, sometimes cruelty. I have learned to let their stories pass through me. I have discovered that if I take them into—into my spirit—I would not be able to do the work.”

“The charm you made for me—is that the sort of work you do there?”

“Your charm is unique, something new for me, but yes. It is what I am trained for.”

As they talked, she realized, they had moved closer together. She felt the hard muscle of his thigh against her own, and the sharpness of his elbow against her arm. Involuntarily, she shuddered, and he turned to her. “Are you cold?”

For one terrible, wonderful moment she thought he was going to put his arm around her. She said, “No. I am not cold.”

He searched her face with his dark gaze. “Morgana,” he began.

She averted her eyes, looking down at her hands, tightly linked in her lap. “You really should address me as Priestess, Sir Lancelin.”

“Is it not allowed for me to speak to you as a woman?”

“A priestess is not like other women.”

“You are certainly not like other women.” He put his long fingers over her tightly wound ones.

She didn’t pull her hands away. She said very softly, “I thought you did not care for women.”

“Why would you think that?”

“Did you not say you would never wed?”

“Ah.” His fingers tightened over hers. “But that is a different issue, Priestess.”

She looked up into his face, and her heart gave a twinge at what she was about to do. “I have no experience, sir, but I think I grasp your intention. And I must tell you that as much as you are committed to your freedom, I am committed to the Temple.”

“Your vow.” He released her hand, but he drew his fingers away slowly, leaving her nerves afire.

She swallowed. “Yes. My vow.”

“It seems a great sacrifice.”

“It is.”

“What purpose does it serve?”

“It is both an outward and an inward sign of devotion. Of singular focus.”

“And do all the priestesses observe it?”

Morgana shrugged. “Sir, there are no men on the Isle. Nor in the Temple. If I were there, as I was intended to be…”

“Ah. So your sacrifice is greater than that of any of the others.”

She looked back into the tapestry of stars above her head, seeking the cool calm they offered. “I am afraid, at this moment, that it is.”

He unfolded his long body from the seat and stood before her. Before he left, he took one of her hands and pressed his lips to her fingers. “And now, Priestess Morgana,” he said. “I share your sacrifice.”

He walked away, his long strides bearing him quickly out of her sight. She sat alone for a time, wishing he were still there, wondering what was happening to her. “If only I could go home,” she whispered into the night.

The nightjar answered her, softly, sweetly, from the branches of the holm oak.

She whispered, “Thank you, little sister, but no. Not yet.”

Until the king released her, she would have to stay. She would have to be strong enough to resist this great temptation.

As the golden weeks of autumn faded into the silvery days of winter, Gwenvere’s resentment of Morgana intensified.

She persisted in calling her the witch-priestess, not only in private but in public rooms, at dinner, in the presence of courtiers and knights, often in Morgana’s hearing.

It seemed the only person in Camulod who was not aware of how the queen felt about the priestess was the king himself.

He seemed not to hear her when she said something offensive, nor to see her when she was rude.

“To be fair,” Morgana said to Braithe one evening as Braithe was brushing her hair, “Arthur is occupied from morning till night with the affairs of the kingdom. I doubt there is a village he has not visited, or a hamlet where he has not offered to send an ox or a cow when it is needed. Perhaps he has no time to worry about what his queen is doing.”

Braithe hesitated, the brush poised above Morgana’s head. “Priestess,” she began, then bit her lip.

“What is it?”

“The queen—you know I have no magic, but—”

“Come now, brat. I think you must stop saying that.”

“I just…” Braithe met Morgana’s gaze in the mirror. She lowered the brush and stood turning it over in her hands. “I have seen it again. Several times.”

Morgana turned to face her. “What have you seen?”

“It could be my imagination,” Braithe said.

“Have I not said you must trust your intuition?”

“Yes. More than once.”

“So. Tell me what you might have imagined.”

“I keep seeing another woman behind Gwenvere’s face. As I did that first day.”

Morgana tilted her head, listening.

Braithe went on. “An ugly woman. Dark and angry. But then I lose sight of her, and once again Gwenvere is—well, as you see her. Beautiful. Graceful.”

“I think if this happened once, Braithe, it could be imagination. But if it continues, it means something more.”

“And she makes people feel things they would not usually feel. Men, especially. I see it with the king, but I see it with other men, too.”

“What is it that you see?”