Page 82 of The Faerie Handmaid

Morgana nodded, satisfied by that. “Yes. Now you rest.”

“Shall I apply the paste?” Braithe asked.

“Thank you, Braithe.”

Braithe smoothed the yarrow paste over the wound as gently as she could. “It will sting a bit, my lord,” she murmured as she worked. “But it is the best thing to prevent a wound turning putrid.”

His eyes didn’t open, but his lips curled. “Then I will welcome the sting,” he said.

Mordred had to be persuaded to leave Lancelin in Braithe’s care. Morgana assured him the knight was in the best possible hands.

“You believe he will survive this, Priestess?” The boy king’s eyes were swollen, and Morgana suspected he had been weeping. His lips were dry and his cheeks hollow. She would try to persuade him to take a little lavender tincture himself.

“I have every hope that we arrived in time, my lord,” she said. “Was he wearing my charm?”

“He was.”

“Ah. Very good. It might have diverted the sword thrust enough to give him a chance. There is every reason to expect Sir Lancelin to recover. Should there be even the slightest change, Braithe will call me.”

“But, Priestess, does he not need your magic?”

“My handmaid has magic of her own, my lord. There is no need to fear, and I know you have work that must be done.”

They were standing in the corridor outside Lancelin’s bedchamber. Bran had sent a kitchen maid up to await any orders, and she waited patiently beside the closed door. The Blackbird said, “You may put your faith in the priestess, my lord.”

Morgana added, “And in Braithe, sir. She knows as much as I about healing.”

“Come now, sir,” the Blackbird said, speaking to the king of Lloegyr as if he were a child. “You must eat something, and the priestess should as well. Will you go down to the hall, or would you like some supper brought to your bedchamber?”

The emotions that crossed Mordred’s face were easy for Morgana to read. Relief was among them, certainly, and gratitude. He was also, she could see, exhausted nearly past bearing by the events of the past few days. “If I may suggest, my lord,” she said gently. “Supper in your own chamber, and then rest. I will give you something to help you sleep.”

Mordred looked to the Blackbird for approval of this choice and received a nod. Bran, hovering at the top of the stairs, took the exchange as a signal and dispatched the maid to the kitchen to fetch the king’s meal. “And you, Priestess?” Bran asked, inclining his head. “Your chamber is ready if you would like to dine there.”

“Thank you, Bran. Please bring my handmaid something as well. She will sit with Sir Lancelin for the time being.”

With all arrangements made, the Blackbird followed Morgana up the stairs. Her old chambers were on the floor above the king’s bedchamber and council room and had been kept ready for her. He took a chair beside the table, and she drew up a second one. A different maid appeared moments later, a laden tray in her hands. She greeted Morgana with a bow and a shy smile.

“Loria!” Morgana exclaimed. “How good it is to see you again.”

Loria, middle-aged and full-bosomed, had been one of Gwenvere’s much-abused maids, forever cowering in corners in hopes of being overlooked. Now she looked well and content, her cheeks pink with health and her eyes clear. “Very kind of you to say so, Priestess,” she said as she laid out plates and cups and a pitcher of ale. “We’re all glad you came to look after the king’s knight.”

“Braithe will be happy to see you, too.”

“Aye, took her tray in just a moment ago.” Loria looked about the chamber with a critical eye. “Looks clean enough, Priestess, but you just say if you need something.”

“I will. Thank you.”

When Loria had gone, Morgana poured a cup of ale for the Blackbird and one for herself. She drank hers straight down and poured another. There were two bowls of soup, thick with garden vegetables, a fresh loaf, and a dish of sweet butter from the dairy. Everything smelled wonderfully of Camulod, of its expertly nurtured gardens, of its lovingly prepared food, and she was suddenly ravenous. As she picked up her spoon, the Blackbird said, “I want to hear everything that happened in the White City, but first, tell me, Priestess. Why do you say your handmaid has magic of her own?”

Morgana swallowed a spoonful of soup and dipped up another. “In the White City, she employed a surprising amount of magic, more than I have seen from her before. She fears it was borrowed from that place, which is swimming in magic, as no doubt you know. She worries her magic will fade now, but I suspect it was simply waiting to be awakened.

She swallowed, then spooned up more soup. The cooks at Camulod were the best in the world, she thought, although the acolytes worked wonders with simple food on the Isle. It made her reflect on how food and drink are affected by whoever makes them, and by being consumed in beloved company. It reminded her of the stanza Braithe had so recently quoted:

The honey is sweet

The making of it sweeter still.

The Blackbird cut her a slice of bread and pushed the butter toward her. She saw with alarm the tremor of his hand and set down her spoon. “Sir, are you well?”