Page 69 of The Faerie Morgana

The horns sounded late that day, when the sun had already sunk behind the western hills and the first stars had begun to shine above Camulod. Morgana knew instantly, without confirmation from Braithe and Loria, who were watching from the window, that they were not announcing a victory.

“The flags…” Braithe said. “Where are the flags?”

The great main gates were pulled open, and the stablemaster summoned his men to the keep.

The warhorses, sweat-soaked and weary, plodded through, riders sagging in their saddles.

Six men carried a litter just behind them.

Sir Lancelin, recognizable by his height and leanness, walked beside it, one hand on the frame to steady it.

He held his helmet under his arm, and his hair hung lank and dirty around his chin.

Braithe was right. No pennants flew above the returning fighters. No bugler joyfully announced the return of the king. A cart drawn by two oxen held the bodies of the slain, and a dozen injured men rode in another just behind.

Bran strode out into the keep to meet the party, and Braithe flew down the stairs to join the other staff as they gathered.

Morgana followed more slowly, carrying her basket of salves and tinctures, and a fresh pile of bandages she had folded in her idle moments.

Behind them Gwenvere still lay unresponsive.

The Blackbird promised to remain beside her.

By the time Morgana reached the keep, everyone knew the king had been wounded.

The whispers were urgent, soft, fearful.

The inner circle of knights gathered around Arthur as he was lifted carefully from the litter and laid on a pallet to be carried to his room.

Lancelin wore a bloodied bandage on one shoulder and limped painfully due to some invisible injury, but he refused to leave Arthur’s side.

The wounded moaned and begged, and the smell of blood and filth filled the keep.

Morgana took up a position opposite Lancelin, looking down at the king as she walked beside his pallet.

Braithe tried to follow, but Morgana pressed her basket into Braithe’s hands. “See to the others,” she said tersely. “You know what to do. Get the maids to help you.”

Braithe slowed her steps, clearly reluctant. One of the wounded men, groaning in pain, called out, “Priestess! Priestess, please help me.” Braithe turned back to answer his call, Morgana’s basket braced on her hip.

Morgana gazed at Arthur’s still, white face.

His fair hair was dark with blood and his tunic was soaked with it.

The smell of it, like a copper pot left too long on a fire, rose to sting her nostrils.

Arthur’s eyes opened briefly to meet hers, and she saw that he knew he was dying.

She wanted to reassure him, to console him, but the lie would not pass her lips.

When she looked across the pallet at Lancelin, desperate to understand how this could have happened, she saw the charm.

Her charm. The one she had created, had magicked with all her knowledge and power, to protect the true king.

It hung now from Lancelin’s neck, and she whispered fiercely, nodding at it, “ Why? ”

The look Lancelin gave her was that of a broken man. There was neither arrogance nor pride in his eyes, and his chin trembled. He said, in a voice full of misery, “He made me wear it.”

A surge of fury made Morgana’s hands and heart shake. She wanted to shriek at him, to accuse him, to vent her growing despair on him. Somehow, gritting her teeth, she managed to rein herself in, to keep walking, to think only of what she might need to attempt to heal the king of his injuries.

Loria met them at the door to the king’s bedchamber. Morgana ordered, “Fetch the Blackbird.”

“He’s with the queen.”

“I do not care. I need him.”

It was Morgana’s second night in a row of no sleep, but she didn’t think about it.

She did what she could to dress Arthur’s wounds, but he had lost a terrifying amount of blood.

His hair and clothes and even his boots were soaked with it.

She labored over him without ceasing, with the Blackbird on the opposite side of the bed.

When she had given him a tincture of willowbark and poppy to ease his pain, and one of goldenseal to attempt to ward off the effects of being struck by unclean weapons, she brought out an unburned candle from her basket and set it on the bedside table.

She could at least make a charm to strengthen him, to give him a bit of time.

To the Blackbird she said, her voice dry and hoarse from fatigue, “Had I known I was fae, perhaps I could have learned how to salvage a life that is draining away.”

“Even the fae cannot defy death, Morgana.”

“I cannot lose him, sir.”

“You can’t save him, Priestess.” She looked into his weary black eyes and saw the awful truth there. It was just as she had known when she first saw Arthur and recognized the terrible wounds he bore.

She knew without being told that the Blackbird would have laid down what was left of his own long life if it would help Arthur. She, too, would lay down her life to save the true king, but she knew of no way to effect such an exchange. Arthur would die, and she didn’t yet understand why.

She found the herbs she wanted and began to crush them into a powder.

She stirred a bit of water into it and lit the candle to warm the mixture.

She found an old, rusty amulet in her basket, unsuitable for a king, but it was all she had.

When the mix had dissolved into a paste, she pressed it into the amulet and sealed it, then laid it on Arthur’s breast. Eased by her ministrations, he slept.

She stood looking down at him, her throat aching with sorrow. “I need to talk to Lancelin.”

“He has gone to assist Braithe.”

She hesitated, fearful of leaving Arthur alone for even a moment.

The Blackbird said, “I will fetch him for you, Priestess.” She cast him a sad, grateful glance, and nodded.

Loria appeared and brought a chair for her to sit in.

She pressed a cup of cider into Morgana’s hands and stood over her until she drank most of it.

When the Blackbird returned, with Lancelin behind him, Loria nodded to them all and faded into a corner to await any instructions that might come.

The Blackbird stepped aside, and Lancelin limped toward Arthur’s bed, heartbreak in every line of his lean face.

His deep voice was hoarse with fatigue and grief. “Can you help him, Priestess?”

Morgana shook her head. “I can make him more comfortable. A bit stronger.”

Lancelin’s eyes met hers. “It was a terrible battle.”

“And the outcome?”

“We drove the Romans back, at hideous cost. They will return, I fear.” He passed his hand over his eyes, as if he could erase what he had seen.

When he dropped it, his features had hardened, his jaw going stiff, his eyes fierce.

“I will regroup our forces. I think I can find fresh fighters in my old demesne. We must hold the western position, or the Romans will overrun us.”

“I will treat your wound.”

“It’s nothing. A scratch.” He shrugged, but she saw that the movement made him wince.

“Sit, Sir Lancelin. Remove your tunic so I can see your injury. Loria, we need more warm water.”

Lancelin gave in and did as she bid. She lifted the charm from around his neck and laid it aside.

The Blackbird watched as Morgana examined Lancelin’s wound.

It was a shallow cut, the blade having just missed Lancelin’s biceps, but left untreated, it would fester.

When Loria returned with a basin of water, she washed the wound, spread a paste of goldenseal on it, and bound it snugly.

Loria brought a fresh tunic, and Morgana helped Lancelin to pull it on.

She took up the charm and placed it around his neck once again, though the wrongness of it made her stomach clench.

When all was done, Morgana pulled a stool close so she could look directly into Lancelin’s eyes. They were red with fatigue and grief, but she had to ask him before he went to rest. “Sir Lancelin. I need to know why you were wearing a charm meant for the king.”

His face crumpled. He pressed his fingers over his eyes and one painful sob escaped him.

She could almost have felt sorry for him, but her anger was greater than her sympathy.

She sat waiting for him to regain control, all the while feeling the presence of the stricken king on the bed behind her as if she herself had been wounded.

In time Lancelin pulled himself together.

He lifted his head, his eyes flicking briefly to the Blackbird, then meeting hers with painful frankness.

“I allowed myself to be seduced. I was— It was like madness, Priestess. As if I was not in control of myself.” His voice was low but steady now.

“When I begged the king’s forgiveness, he gave it freely.

Then—in the battle—” He paused, his gaze still fixed on hers as if inviting her to chastise, to punish him.

“Yes? The battle?”

“We were ambushed. The Romans knew we were coming.”

“Because the queen betrayed you.”

“We didn’t know until we captured her envoy and he confessed.”

“What happened to him?”

Lancelin’s mouth hardened, and for a moment, he looked like the strong man she had once believed him to be. “He’s dead. I didn’t kill him, although I would gladly have done it if one of the other knights had not.”

“And Arthur?”

“For King Arthur, it was the last and deadliest blow from the queen he adored. He took the charm from beneath his tunic and put it around my neck before I could stop him. I would have removed it, made him take it back, but the battle was already joined, and the Romans were upon us. Arthur charged into the fray, and I could only follow.” He dropped his head, but Morgana could see his throat work as he swallowed a sob.

His voice broke as he said, “I tried to protect him. I did all I knew how to do, but he—he threw himself into danger. Deliberately. Carelessly!” The sob broke through, and he coughed to try to disguise it.

Morgana turned on her stool to look up at the Blackbird. He said, not accusingly but with great sadness, “He is too young. Brave in battle, but easily deceived by a beautiful woman.”

“Can you not do anything for him?” begged Lancelin.

She stood and laid her hand on Arthur’s clammy brow. “I will do all I can.”

“What can I do to help?”

She turned her head, just enough to meet his eyes. “Get Gwenvere out of Camulod. Take her back to her father, or drop her in the lake, I care not.”

Lancelin inclined his head to her. “I will do as you ask, Priestess. Perhaps in time you will forgive me.”

She looked away from him, back to Arthur’s pale face, his whitened lips. “Perhaps,” she said. She heard the door close behind him as he left, and she whispered, “Perhaps in time I will forgive myself.”