Page 94 of The Faerie Handmaid

“Priestess Morgana is the most powerful woman in the Temple,” Braithe said. She found Lancelin’s leggings and began to help him pull them on.

“I give no argument to that,” he said. “But since your sojourn in fae country, Braithe, you are different. I feel it when you’re in the room, or when you touch me.”

She stood back, her hands linked before her. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“I have no words for it, either,” he said. He stood, pulling his tunic down over his hips, then looked around for his boots. “But there is a strength about you that makes me think of Morgana. Priestess Morgana, I mean.”

“I am just a handmaid.”

Lancelin paused in the act of tying his boots, straightening with care for the lingering stiffness in his wound. He looked down at Braithe with a certain hardness in his face. “Braithe, it is time you stopped saying that. Past time, indeed.”

Braithe dropped her eyes and had to resist the urge to cover her suddenly warming cheeks with her hands. She said softly, “I know, sir. I will not argue. But if I am not a handmaid, then what do I call myself? How do I serve?”

He bent to his boot laces again. “There will be a way. Have patience.”

Braithe watched him as he stood by his washstand, scrubbing at his face and neck, then tying back his dark hair. Streaks of gray had developed in it, and they suited him. He turned to her when he was done, and the spark of humor had returned to his gaze. “Will I do?”

“Yes, my lord.” As he opened the door of his bedchamber, she heard him think, If only Morgana… but he cut off his own thought without completing it.

Her own thought began the same way. If only Morgana… But hers was complete. If only Morgana were here to advise me.

Braithe repaired to the kitchen, as she often did, to have her midday meal in the company of the kitchen maids and cooks. They were a convivial group, laughing together, gossiping, and though they persisted in calling her priestess, they were easy in her company. The afternoon had turned breathlessly hot, the air of late summer lying still in the keep and baking the upper ramparts of the courtine. It was cool in the kitchen, nestled as it was in the base of the western tower. One of the cooks had made a pitcher of mint water, a treat Braithe had always loved.

Braithe was sitting at the long, knife-scarred table, sipping her second cup of mint water, when Loria came in. The maid was out of breath, her round cheeks damp with perspiration. “Priestess Braithe,” she panted. “Sir Lancelin wants you. He said quickly.”

Propelled by a rush of alarm, Braithe scrambled to her feet. “Is he ill? Is it his wound again?”

“Worse.” Loria’s eyes were wide with alarm, and she pressed a freckled hand to her plump bosom as if that would help her catch her breath.

Braithe was on her way to the door. She asked Loria as she passed her, “Where is he?”

“In the king’s council room,” Loria said, her voice hushed with awe. “He wants you in there, yah?”

Braithe spun about to stare at her. “Is the king there?”

“Aye.” Loria nodded. “What have you done?” she whispered, as if perhaps her words wouldn’t reach the ear of every maid and cook in the kitchen. They stared at her and at Braithe in turn, their faces avid with curiosity.

One of the cooks said, a little too loudly, “Priestess Braithe would never do a thing to offend!”

“But the king…” one of the kitchen maids began.

Braithe began to laugh. “The king has been all kindness to me,” she said, dimpling at her friends. “There is nothing to fear.”

“Best hurry, though,” Loria said.

“On my way. Thank you, Loria.” The maid started to follow her out to the stairwell, but Braithe stopped her. “Have some of that lovely mint water,” she said. “It is delicious. I will return in no time.” She picked up her skirts and started up the stairs.

Despite her reassurances to Loria, the summons worried her. Why would Sir Lancelin have sent the maid with a sense of urgency? And why the king’s council room, of all places? It had been Morgana’s duty, when Arthur was king, to sit with him there and offer advice and counsel when asked. Braithe herself had only seen inside once or twice to admire its great circular table and the high-backed chairs for Arthur and Morgana, and anyone else of importance who might be present.

As she pattered up the stairs, she began to fear that there was news of Morgana, or perhaps of the Blackbird. Or could it be Idhri? These thoughts made her hurry, and by the time she reached the level of the council chamber her heart was pounding in her throat. The door stood open. She stopped just short of it to smooth her robe and tuck her hair, which had grown enough to reach her shoulders, behind her ears. Some of her curls sprang back immediately, but she couldn’t help that. She made herself draw one slow breath before she stepped into the doorway.

Sir Lancelin and King Mordred were not alone. Several knights were seated around the big table, leaning on the arms of their chairs. No one looked concerned. Braithe recognized most of them and had treated two or three for minor wounds after a battle. Mordred and Lancelin sat next to each other. An empty chair waited to Lancelin’s left.

There was no air of tension except from a man Braithe had not seen before, who stood to one side of the room, a cloth cap in his two hands, his gaze on his feet as if he were afraid to meet the king’s eyes. A farmer, she thought, or a cooper, perhaps a blacksmith. His clothes were the rough homespun of a workingman. His gray hair fell to his shoulders, and his face and hands bore the marks of years of exposure.

People often came to Camulod from outlying villages to ask for favors or assistance. King Mordred, she knew, had worked hard to keep up the support for such people, as his brother had done. He frequently sent cattle from the Camulod herd, sheep from their fold, or a pig now and again to aid a village in expanding its stock.

Lancelin stood up. “Braithe,” he said, his deep voice carrying around the room. The other knights glanced up, and several smiled at her. King Mordred did the same.