Page 70 of The Faerie Morgana

Morgana and Braithe and the Blackbird kept unceasing watch beside Arthur’s bed.

Loria came in and out of the chamber with food and water, emptied the chamber pot, refreshed the oil in the lamp, and brought new candles when the old ones guttered.

Braithe knew it was a death watch, although no one named it so.

Around them Camulod was eerily silent; even the children and the dogs were subdued and quiet.

The impending tragedy hung over the castle like the densest fog of winter, heavy with grief, and with the tears soon to be shed.

Mordred, despite his youth, rose above his own sorrow and anxiety to step into his brother’s shoes.

He oversaw the funeral ceremonies for those killed in the battle, made arrangements for their families to be paid the death price, and met with the surviving knights in the council room.

Bran worked tirelessly, day and night, anticipating the needs of the wounded, the requirements of the staff, managing the kitchen and the storerooms and the flow of produce through the farmer’s gate.

There was no sign of Gwenvere. If she had risen from her own bed, no one in the king’s chamber knew, and no one asked.

If she was still in the castle, there was no sign of her.

Lancelin had disappeared, too, and Braithe supposed he had accepted Morgana’s charge.

No doubt Gwenvere, conscious or not, was no longer in Camulod. No one appeared to care.

As the sad days passed, Braithe pressed Morgana to eat and drink and saw to it that the Blackbird had a chair to sit on.

She took her turn in bathing Arthur’s forehead and chafing his wrists.

He did not eat, but occasionally she could persuade him to drink a bit of honeyed ale, or to swallow one of the tinctures Morgana prepared.

She tried to commit the feel of his skin and the shape of his face to her memory.

This was her last chance to touch him, to watch his fine features, simply to be in his presence.

Sometimes, when Morgana took her place beside the bed, Braithe went to the window to look out into the starry night.

The forest and the gardens around the castle were blooming prodigiously, as if they were trying to compensate for the grimness within.

Braithe thought it was a heartbreaking time to leave the world, when the flowers were in their glory and the air was sweet with spring, but perhaps in a way that was best.

She didn’t speak the stanza, but she recalled it:

Beyond the darkness, light.

Beneath the waters, earth.

After despair, hope.

Four days after the war party had borne their wounded king home to Camulod, all three of them, sitting beside Arthur’s bed in exhausted silence, finally nodded off, one by one, into a deep sleep. Darkness reigned beyond the window, and the castle was quiet.

When one of the hunting dogs suddenly began to howl from the stables, Braithe jerked awake.

She saw Morgana bending over Arthur’s bed as he drew extended whistling breaths.

Braithe jumped up from her chair to stand opposite as Morgana slid her long-fingered hand beneath Arthur’s tunic.

She laid her palm against his chest, and his breathing quieted and slowed, bit by bit.

Braithe didn’t realize tears were slipping down her cheeks until one splashed on her hand.

She looked up and saw that the Blackbird had joined them, standing at the foot of the bed.

Morgana didn’t move her hand. Her eyes were closed and her head bowed.

Braithe felt the intensity of the priestess’s emotions, mirrored in her own breast, reflected in the defeated slump of the Blackbird’s shoulders.

The moments between the king’s breaths grew longer and longer. Only the howling of the solitary dog broke the stillness of the night, and Braithe had the irrelevant thought that it was odd no other dog joined in.

It seemed they stood there for an eternity, holding their own breaths as they waited for the next from Arthur.

Braithe guessed it must be midnight when the dog abruptly stopped his howling.

Morgana, her face bleak, lifted her hand from beneath Arthur’s tunic and let it dangle limply beside her.

A moment later, the door to the chamber opened and Mordred, gangly and thin and haunted-looking, stood in the doorway, looking in.

He said, in the newly deepened voice that still startled Braithe, “How does my brother?”

For answer, the Blackbird straightened and turned to the lad. “The king is dead,” he said in a gravelly voice. He bowed to Mordred. “May the new king live long and rule well.”