Page 61 of The Faerie Morgana
Morgana let several days pass while she pondered the betrayal of Arthur by the queen he adored, berated herself for her own weakness for the treacherous Lancelin, whom Arthur also loved, and puzzled over the odd fear the Blackbird had expressed, that Gwenvere was in some way a danger to Morgana herself.
She thought hard about Braithe’s accusation that Gwenvere was herself a witch. She thought about the Blackbird and took comfort in knowing he worried about her. Cared about her still, despite his conviction that she had made a great error.
She let the days pass while she strove to recover her usual poise.
She made herself a tincture of vervain and blackberry leaves.
If she had been magicked, the tincture should help her purify and restore herself.
The idea troubled her, though. No one on the Isle was strong enough to magick her, even if they had wanted to.
It seemed impossible there would be someone at Camulod who could do it.
She resisted the urge to seek out the Blackbird, telling herself he would come to her when he was ready.
She tried to persuade Braithe to stay away from Gwenvere, but Braithe had taken the Blackbird’s mission to heart.
She always wore the charm he had given her, and Morgana knew she often left her bed in the night to follow the queen.
She made Braithe a different charm, a simple one of protection, the kind she had so often created at the Temple. She made her promise to keep it in her pocket, to guard her from Gwenvere’s worst inclinations.
Through it all she wondered endlessly about Gwenvere herself, about her bursts of violent temper and the apparent enchantments she wielded so easily. The need to do something about the queen burned in her, but she didn’t know what it might be.
The winter snows began that week, spatters of flakes at first, and a thin glaze of ice spreading near Ilyn’s shore.
Soon the snow fell in earnest, muffling the sounds of horses’ hooves and chickens’ cackles, blanketing the keep in crystalline white that sparkled in competition with the glittering of the courtine.
Snow drifted in streamers of white like bride’s ribbons around the towers.
The layer of ice on the lake expanded, and only the most intrepid boatmen braved the crossing.
Morgana would have liked to stroll the courtine, wrapped in the cloak of thick fox fur Arthur had given her.
She loved watching tattered sheets of snow soften the landscape and frost the tree branches.
On the Isle she had often gone out to walk in it, smiling at the dark winter birds flitting across the cold whiteness.
She would stop to brush snow from the tops of plants in the herb garden.
She would breathe the icy air, letting it refresh her mind and soothe her spirit.
Her nose and cheeks grew cold, but the solitude and silence of such winter forays had been worth the discomfort.
Now she resisted indulging herself for fear of meeting Lancelin.
She considered the greater part of the blame to fall on Gwenvere, who was after all betraying her husband.
But Lancelin had betrayed Arthur’s trust as well, and she couldn’t bear to face him.
Had it not been for her own weakness, her own shame, she would have challenged him on his faithlessness, but she had stained her own honor in the most disgraceful and humbling fashion.
She had forfeited the right to reproach him.
In the end, she decided the only thing she could do was confront Gwenvere herself.
She chose a night when Braithe’s charm warned her that Gwenvere was leaving her chamber. Braithe, who had been brushing her hair before helping her to bed, tossed down the brush and turned for the door.
“No,” Morgana said. “Stay here in my room, brat. It is my turn.”
Braithe hesitated in the doorway. “But, Priestess, the Blackbird—”
“I remember his warning. I will take care.”
Morgana took up her fox fur cloak and swirled it around her shoulders as she hurried out and down the stairs to the level of the royal apartments. She was just in time to see the queen coming out of her bedchamber.
Gwenvere was alone, her hair loose around her shoulders, her voluminous white nightdress flowing to the floor, a diaphanous dressing gown over it.
She had passed the turning of the corridor that led to Lancelin’s room when Morgana, long legs carrying her faster than Gwenvere’s shorter ones, caught her up.
Gwenvere had not reached Lancelin’s door when Morgana’s long fingers gripped her slender wrist.
The moment she touched the queen and felt the unnatural heat emanating from her body, she knew.
Braithe’s instinct had been right. Her own anxiety had been well-placed, and with the surge of fury that filled her, she broke through the constraints Gwenvere had managed to place on her, constraints no one in the world should have been able to enforce.
Gwenvere tried to tear her wrist free, but Morgana’s hand was strong. “What—” Gwenvere gasped.
“You are not going in there, my lady,” Morgana said in a low voice. Her own blood ran hot, with both anger and relief, because now she understood.
“How dare you!” Gwenvere cried in a fierce whisper. “Release me!”
“I cannot stand by while you betray my half brother,” Morgana said.
“What? How dare you accuse me—”
“Really?” Morgana ungently pulled her away from the door. “Am I imagining you were about to enter the bedchamber of a man not your husband, at nearly midnight?”
“You know nothing!”
“On the contrary, I know almost everything.” Morgana twisted her hand, forcing Gwenvere to stumble backward down the corridor.
“Witch!” Gwenvere grunted, her delicate features crumpling at the pain in her wrist. “No one will believe anything you say!”
Morgana dragged the queen toward the stairwell, jerking her upright when she tripped on the hem of her nightdress.
“I am one of the Nine,” Morgana said. “People believe everything I say, because they know I do not lie.” She made Gwenvere start up the steps.
“In fact, I cannot lie, for some reason. I am the exact opposite of yourself.”
Gwenvere pulled back, trying again to free herself, and nearly fell down the stairs. Only Morgana’s relentless grip held her upright. “Where are you taking me?” Gwenvere panted.
“To my bedchamber, where we can talk.”
“No!”
“No?” Morgana tugged her up to the next landing, and then on, up the next set of steps. “Very well. We will go up to the courtine. We will disturb no one there.”
“I won’t go, witch! I’ll scream for the guards!”
Morgana tightened her grip. “Will you? And admit you were roaming the tower in search of a different bed?”
“You have no right—”
“But I do.” Morgana yanked her on, higher and higher.
She was sure she was bruising Gwenvere’s pale skin, but she didn’t care.
The queen’s breath came in whimpers at the unaccustomed exertion as she was forced either to climb or be dragged.
Morgana said, “My life’s work is to protect the true king, my lady, and that is what I intend to do. That gives me the right.”
They reached the door that led out to the top of the courtine. Morgana turned the latch with her free hand and thrust Gwenvere out into the snowy night. She followed, taking care to shut the door behind her.
The queen immediately began to shiver in her light garments. “I’ll freeze!” she whined. “Is that your intent?” Gwenvere demanded, her teeth already chattering. “That I should die of the cold?”
“Oh, no,” Morgana said. “Not that. Here, take my cloak. It was a gift to me from your husband. You remember him? The king you have made cuckold?”
Gwenvere seized the cloak with greedy hands and wrapped herself in it. Morgana’s black robe was not particularly warm, but she burned within and hardly felt the cold. A sudden abrasive wind whipped the hem of her robe and slashed at the heavy folds of the fur Gwenvere now wore.
Gwenvere had to shout above the noise of the wind. “What do you want, witch?”
Morgana’s deep voice cut through the wind’s racket. “I want you to leave Camulod, my lady. I know you now. You are a woman without conscience or honor or sense of duty, and I want you gone before you destroy the king’s reign.”
Gwenvere’s lip curled, almost a snarl. She leaned closer, shoving her small face toward Morgana’s. Morgana didn’t move, but she felt a grudging admiration for the smaller woman’s courage. She surely had some idea of what one of the Nine could do.
“Listen to me, witch-priestess!” Gwenvere cried. The wind whipped her hair around her face and tangled it around her slender neck. “Listen! I am queen here, and I take no orders from any witch!”
Morgana’s own lip curled with anger and with certainty.
Her fury drove the wind higher and louder, but her voice cut through it as easily as a knife cuts soft cheese.
“You will take an order from me, Gwenvere!” She folded her arms, pressing the sharp edges of her sigil against her body.
“You will tell the king you have made a mistake, that you cannot be his queen. You will leave Camulod, go back to your father, or find another husband. It matters not to me what you do, so long as you set Arthur free!”
Gwenvere staggered before a great gust and grabbed hold of the inner parapet to keep from falling.
She was all but blinded by her hair, and the fur cloak rose and fell around her, beating against her legs.
She shrieked, “I will not! You believe I have no power, but you mistake me!” She gripped the icy edge of the parapet, slick with snow.
“You think you know everything, but you don’t! ”
Morgana stiffened her legs against the buffeting of the wind.
It howled around the tower, tearing at the pennants, battering the walls and windows with torrents of icy snowflakes that rattled like bits of gravel.
Fury rose within her, threatening to erupt.
Her sigil vibrated against her body, singing with power, hot with anger at the offenses of this woman.
The greatest temptation of Morgana’s life hung before her.
She had only to make the gesture, to open her palm and stretch out her fingers.
The parapet Gwenvere clung to would crumble, the stones carried off by the wind, leaving nothing but empty space between Gwenvere of Camulod and the frozen ground far below.
Morgana’s fingers twitched in readiness.
Her own hair, so heavy and bright, fluttered about her, uniquely hers, a sign of her strength and her magic.
But she hesitated. Did she want this on her conscience? Could she bear this weight on her spirit forever?
She stared at Gwenvere’s distorted features through the slash of snowflakes and the shimmer of her own hair, and thought not.
Braithe waited in Morgana’s chamber, thinking the priestess would bring Gwenvere there to confront her, but as the minutes crept past and they didn’t come, she began to worry.
She knew what Gwenvere was capable of. She knew how she could strike without warning, without hesitation, without thought or control.
Too fearful to wait, Braithe seized one of the priestess’s cloaks and threw it around her shoulders.
She had just opened the door when she heard the unmistakable bang of the door high above her, the door that led to the top of the courtine.
She paused, listening for voices, for whispers, for shouts, but all she could hear was the rising howl of the wind.
She bent her head, searching within herself for direction.
A moment later she dashed up the stairs, one flight, two, three, until she reached the door leading outside.
The door was thick and heavy. Now, with the wind battering it, it was almost impossible to open.
Braithe pushed, and cursed, and pushed again.
She felt a compulsion to hurry, to get out, to be present to what was happening.
As a last resort she cried, “By the hand of the Lady, door, I command you to open!” She shoved again, and it swung wide.
Braithe nearly fell out into the storm. Only the force of the wind kept her upright.
She saw them immediately, just steps away.
Morgana stood like a windblown statue, her black robe swirling around her knees, her silver hair blending with the driving snowflakes.
Gwenvere, swathed in Morgana’s fox fur cloak, huddled by the parapet, gripping it with both hands, her face distorted and grotesque.
There was no trace of the beautiful queen in that face.
Looking at her was like looking into the maw of a wolf.
Braithe’s heart clenched with a sudden terror. She left the door standing open as she moved toward them, clinging to the wall against the pressure of the tearing wind.
She knew they couldn’t hear her. She needed to be closer. She struggled along the parapet, desperate to call out, to warn Gwenvere off. She had just drawn breath when the queen, abruptly releasing her hold on the parapet, leaped forward.
Gwenvere struck Morgana with both hands and her head, deliberately and violently. She threw all her weight into her attack, and though she was a slight woman, her momentum drove her into Morgana’s body.
Morgana’s eyes widened, and her hands flew up, but she was too late.
She stumbled backward. Her knees caught the edge of the parapet, and her long body swayed for an instant, out of balance, and then she fell.
Braithe screamed her name into the fury of the wind.
Gwenvere twisted to face her when she heard it and shouted an inaudible curse.
From Morgana there was nothing.