Page 68 of The Faerie Morgana

Between them, Braithe and Loria lifted Gwenvere and laid her on her bed.

She lay as one dead, though her slight bosom rose and fell with her breath, and her pulse fluttered faintly at the base of her throat.

The Blackbird came into the chamber to stand over her for a time, scowling. Bran asked what he could do.

The Blackbird said, “Take Priestess Morgana and her handmaid to the kitchen and give them some refreshment.”

“And you, sir?”

“I will stay with the queen.”

Loria said, “I can fetch you something, sir, if you like.”

The Blackbird sighed a long, tired sigh. “Thank you, Loria. I accept your offer.”

They disappeared into the corridor, one by one.

The Blackbird remained where he was beside the queen’s bed, leaning on his staff.

He supposed Gwenvere could wake at any moment, but he wasn’t certain of that.

Morgana’s strength was beyond anything he had seen before.

Even her mother had not wielded power with such devastating effect.

But he had not known the Lady long before she vanished beneath the lake. There could be myriad events in her earlier life of which he was ignorant. The fae were known to be dangerous when crossed, and Gwenvere had more than crossed Morgana. She had tried to kill her.

Loria returned with a laden tray, sidling through the door to set it on the bedside table.

She was puffing a bit from the climb up the stairs, and the Blackbird felt a sting of compunction.

The maid was not young, although of course far younger than himself.

He took a chair and gestured to another.

“Loria, sit for a moment. Rest yourself.” The look of surprise on her plain face as she obeyed told him that such basic courtesy was unusual in Gwenvere’s service.

As he poured himself a cup of cider and took a bit of cheese from a platter, she said diffidently, “Sir, do you think the queen will recover?”

“I cannot answer that, I’m afraid.”

“Will the priestess Morgana—will she tend her? Try to heal her?”

The Blackbird chewed the cheese thoughtfully. When he had swallowed it, he said, “I expect she will try.”

“Oh.” Loria slumped in her chair, gazing at the queen’s still figure. “I thought perhaps she would die.”

“Did you?”

“I saw a man struck by a tree limb one time, and he fell just like the queen did. One second on his feet, the next on the ground. Never got up again.”

“The priestess was defending herself.”

“Did a good job of it.”

“Indeed.”

“Good thing none of those round table knights saw that. They’d be crying to have the priestess in their war party.”

The Blackbird’s beard twitched. “I believe you’re right. That is precisely what would happen.”

“We don’t have to tell ’em, do we?”

The Blackbird drained his cup of cider and began to slice a chunk of fresh brown bread to go with the cheese. “We don’t have to tell anyone, Loria. Bran may feel he should, though.”

She waved one plump hand. “Bran won’t say a word. He knows what the queen’s like. The whole castle does.”

“Not popular, I gather.”

“She was at first, before they knew. Me and her other maids, we’ve been with her a long time. We already knew.”

“But the king?”

“We feel bad for the king, sir. He’s a good king, a good man, and everyone loves him. But she knows how to convince a man she is what he wants her to be.” She glanced dismissively at the bed where the queen lay, barely breathing. “I’ve seen it before.”

“Before?”

“Oh, yes, sir, if you don’t mind me being blunt. This one has always had a way with men, ever since she came back from—well, it’s never been clear where she came back from.”

The Blackbird arched an eyebrow. “Did she not grow up in her father’s house?”

“She did, for a time, but she disappeared. Hardly the same when she showed up again.”

“And no one knew where she had been?”

“Just rumors, sir. Pretty wild ones.”

The Blackbird pondered this for a time as he finished his meal. “King Arthur was ignorant of this when he made her his queen.”

“Oh, aye, sir. Her father made sure of that.”

Braithe assisted Morgana as she tried to revive Gwenvere.

She ran downstairs for heated water, for fresh candles, for an oil lamp as the day wore on and darkness gathered.

Morgana was busy with her mortar and pestle, steeping herbs she thought would help, laying her hands on Gwenvere’s forehead and wrists to detect what was happening in her slender body.

Braithe stood by, marveling at how hard Morgana worked to save the woman who had twice attempted to kill her.

The Blackbird had disappeared up to his aerie, but in the evening he returned to keep watch with Morgana while Braithe and Loria went down to the kitchen to prepare a tray so they could sup in the queen’s chamber.

As they waited for a pot of soup to warm, Loria sliced bread and made a salad of early spring greens.

Braithe sat down at the long, knife-scarred table, glad to be off her feet for a few moments, watching the efficient movements of the older woman.

“You have served Gwenvere a long time, I think,” she said.

Loria glanced around, but they were alone.

The evening meal had already concluded for the rest of the castle, pots scrubbed and dishes put away.

She said, “I was a scullery maid. I thought being a lady’s maid would be better than scouring the kitchen floor.

” She tossed a sprig of lettuce into her bowl with a dismissive movement. “I was wrong.”

“Could you go home if you wanted to?”

“No one to go home to.” Loria divided the supper things onto two trays and pushed one in Braithe’s direction. “Soup’s hot now,” she said. “Ladle some up for the priestess, and some for yourself.”

Braithe did as Loria suggested, and the two of them carried the trays up to the queen’s chamber.

They found Morgana leaning against the window frame, breathing the cool night air.

Gwenvere lay as still as a corpse on her bed, though Braithe could see she still lived.

The Blackbird rose to open the door for them and brought chairs.

Loria stood back, but the Blackbird indicated she should sit with them.

Braithe thought for a moment the older woman would refuse, but in the end, she did sit, with a little groan of relief.

She even drank some soup and nibbled a piece of bread, although she looked embarrassed to be doing it in this company.

Braithe turned her attention to persuading Morgana to eat and drink. The priestess looked exhausted, her eyes hooded and dark, her cheeks pinched.

The Blackbird noticed. He leaned toward Morgana, who was crumbling a piece of bread between her long fingers. “This was not your fault,” he said, his voice stronger than usual.

Morgana said in a flat tone, “I know.”

“But you seem—” Braithe began.

Morgana shook her head. “You misunderstand me. I have no regret. What weighs upon me is how the king will feel when he sees her like this.”

Loria drew a sharp little breath, and every head turned to her. Braithe said, “What is it?”

The maid wrapped her arms around herself, staring at the floor, her cheeks flaming. “I don’t know, should I say…”

Braithe spoke as gently as she could. “You should, Loria. If you know something, you should tell us.”

“Won’t help her,” Loria said, with a nod toward the bed, where Gwenvere still had not moved so much as a finger.

“What happened?” Morgana said, her attention sharpening.

Loria fiddled with the strings of her apron. “She said not to tell,” she blurted. “But seems like I should.”

“You are undoubtedly correct,” the Blackbird said mildly.

“He saw them,” Loria said, so softly only Morgana heard her.

“What?” Braithe and the Blackbird spoke at the same moment.

“He saw whom?” Morgana pressed.

“He saw the queen with Sir Lancelin. It was the night before they set out to fight the Romans. He went to talk to the knight, and he saw them.”

“Ah,” Morgana said. “And what did he do?”

“I wasn’t spying! I wasn’t, but—”

“It’s all right, Loria.” Braithe put her small hand on the older woman’s arm. “No one thinks you were spying.”

“She always made me watch the corridor for anyone coming, but I fell asleep sitting on the floor. When I woke up, the king was backing out of Lancelin’s bedchamber, looking as if—as if he had been in a battle.

” Her lips trembled, and her eyes were full of sorrow.

“As if he had been in a battle and had lost.”

It was a long speech for Loria, and she fell silent when it had tumbled out of her. Braithe said, “Did Gwenvere follow him? What did she do?”

For a long time Loria didn’t speak. Finally, staring at the floor, she mumbled, “Laughed. She laughed.”

Morgana did her best. She sat beside Gwenvere’s bed all through that first night, dabbing a tincture of lavender and goldenseal on her forehead and temples.

She took Gwenvere’s cold hand in hers and tried to hear her thoughts, to know if she was aware.

All she sensed were threads of anger, erupting as if from nothing and collapsing back into nothing, like water spouts on a lake.

She thought of Arthur, betrayed by both his wife and Lancelin, going off to war with despair in his heart. She could hardly bear to think of it, or her part in all of it. She should have tried to tell him the truth about his queen. She should have insisted he listen.

She tormented herself all through the dark hours with these thoughts.

When morning broke, she thought of the Blackbird, who also tortured himself, also having done what he thought was best, only to see matters go awry.

She sat beside Gwenvere’s bed, exhausted, sad, reproaching herself for not preparing her half brother for this moment.

Gwenvere lay without the slightest response to anything Morgana tried.

When Braithe came to ask how the queen did, Morgana said, “The illness is in her spirit. I know no remedy for that.”

“So she will die?”

“Perhaps. She has taken a terrible blow from a power far stronger than her own.”

The Blackbird had come into the chamber behind Braithe. He stood a little way from the bed, his gaze not on Gwenvere but on Morgana. She felt it and glanced up to take in his sympathy and his worry for her.

“I am all right, sir,” she said. “My concern is for the king. If the queen revives, they could talk, reach some understanding. I know little of marriage, but it seems to me if Gwenvere does not waken, he will live his life wondering why his love for her was not enough.” She stepped back from the bed.

“And he will be doubly wounded by Lancelin’s betrayal. ”

Braithe said, “Sir Lancelin apologized.”

“What?” Morgana turned a fierce gaze to Braithe. “How do you know that?”

“Loria told me. Lancelin came out into the corridor and fell to his knees in front of Arthur, pleading madness, begging forgiveness.”

Morgana had difficulty imagining Lancelin kneeling.

“She said the knight wept into his hands.”

Morgana could not picture it. “He is proud to a fault. I wonder that he could humble himself in that fashion.”

“It would have been shame,” the Blackbird said. “Literally bringing him to his knees. He made a terrible error, and I can imagine that hearing Gwenvere laugh at Arthur, his liege, was a shock. He knew what he had done was wrong, no matter how persuasive the woman. He came to his senses.”

“A bit late,” Morgana said sourly.

“Very,” the Blackbird responded. “But people do sometimes change.”

“Some do, I suppose.”

“And some never will.”

Braithe burst out, “I wish we could know the difference!”

“Indeed,” the Blackbird said. “That would be a gift indeed.”

Morgana was to think of this conversation many times as she came to understand how much she herself had altered.

She had often suffered accusations of arrogance but brushed them off, thinking they came from envy.

She understood differently now. And when she saw Lancelin again, she understood how profoundly a person could be transformed by life.

Selfishness could become empathy. Disdain could become understanding. Arrogance could become humility.

She thought of one of the stanzas. Braithe had quoted it once, but she had barely listened at the time. That, she supposed, was proof in itself.

Sea-foam is not the boast of the sea.

The gardener takes no credit for the flower’s perfume.

Pride owns no part of wisdom.

Change is the only constant.

She would always wish, though, that the price of change—hers, the Blackbird’s, Lancelin’s, even Arthur’s—need not be tragedy.