Page 81 of The Faerie Handmaid

Braithe’s mouth opened, but no words came from it, and Morgana chuckled. “I know. It’s unthinkable.”

Braithe blew out a long breath. “By the Lady’s hand, I had not expected that.”

“No. It surprised me as well.”

“I assume she meant you should produce a fully fae grandchild.”

“I have no doubt,” Morgana said. “And that, my dear brat, will never happen.”

BOOK THREE

BRAITHE OF CAMULOD

26

The height of summer was past, and the bounties of harvest season were beginning to show in the gardens nestled beneath Camulod’s courtine. Wild roses climbed above the farmer’s gate, and Braithe saw that the patches of leeks, one of her favorites, were already knee-high and ready for stewing. The blue war banners, now painted with Mordred’s crest, still flew above the walls, but an air of dread swirled around the castle. She sensed it the moment her feet touched the path leading to the main gate.

Idhri carried most of their bags, but Braithe kept Morgana’s precious basket in her own hands. Morgana led the way, and the gate swung open in its ponderous fashion just as they reached it. The gatekeeper bowed and escorted them directly to the west tower. Bran, for many years Camulod’s faithful steward, opened the doors for them. He was a little more gray than Braithe remembered but still straight of back, clear-eyed, and pragmatic as always. He welcomed them and, needing no explanation, led them without delay up the stairs to Lancelin’s bedchamber.

The Blackbird was waiting for them outside the door. He and Morgana exchanged a glance. “You knew I was coming,” she said.

“I saw it,” the Blackbird said in his creaking voice. “I want to hear everything, but not now.”

“There’s no time to waste.” Morgana was already halfway through the doorway. Braithe, a few steps behind, heard the priestess say, “My lord.”

King Mordred’s light voice responded. “Priestess Morgana, I’m so grateful to you for being here. Sir Lancelin…” His voice faltered.

Morgana answered calmly. “Yes, my lord. I am aware. I will do all I can.”

Braithe nodded to the Blackbird, murmuring, “Sir.” He held the door for her, and she went in.

The smell of blood was strong in the darkened chamber, but Braithe detected no putrescence. Knowing in advance what Morgana would request, she went to the window and pushed back the curtain to allow fresh air and light to come in. She cleared a space on the table for Morgana’s basket and began setting out the things she would need. There was a poppy tincture and more of the lavender one she had given to Idhri. There was yarrow water for cleansing and a paste of the same herb, combined with goldenseal, for stanching the flow of blood. A pile of fresh bandages had been laid ready, and on top of them lay a familiar charm.

Morgana was bending over Lancelin. He had not opened his eyes. Braithe stepped up beside the priestess as she folded back the bloodstained sheet to reveal a long, deep cut that ran from Lancelin’s left shoulder to his right hip. It was a horrific wound. It lay open in places to reveal the muscle beneath, and its edges were red with incipient infection.

Braithe held out the jar of yarrow water, and Morgana took it with barely a glance. “The paste, too,” she said.

Braithe answered, “Right here,” and held out the pottery jar.

While Morgana sprinkled yarrow water over the wound, Braithe returned to the basket. At the bottom were three needles of different sizes and some heavy silk thread. As she carried them to Morgana, the priestess said, “Poppy tincture, I think, Braithe. This will hurt.”

Lancelin’s eyes opened at that. They were narrow and dark, and though they were bleary with pain, the spark of intelligence that had always shone in them was still there. Morgana, seeing, laid a hand on his shoulder. “My lord,” she said. “I am sorry to see you in this circumstance.”

He lifted one hand as if he would like to touch hers, but it fell weakly back to the bed. “You are going to hurt me, I hear,” he said hoarsely, with a twitch of his lips. His mouth was wide, thin-lipped. His nose was prominent, even more so as he lay back on his pillow, and his jaw was long, yet somehow his features worked together. No one would call Lancelin handsome, but his face was a compelling one. Braithe remembered how effortlessly he dominated every room he entered. A twinge of grief pinched her heart, and she drew a sharp breath, denying it. He was alive. He was in Morgana’s care. This was not the moment for despair.

Morgana said, “I am afraid I am going to hurt you, sir. Braithe will give you a dose of something to ease the pain, but I need to close this wound.”

“I doubt you can hurt me worse than that damned Saxon did,” he rasped.

“My needle is no sword, that is true,” Morgana answered. “Now, Braithe, if you please.”

Braithe had a small silver spoon ready. She poured the tincture into it and slipped it between Lancelin’s lips. He blinked his thanks. At the first touch of Morgana’s needle he flinched, but he made no sound. Braithe offered more of the poppy tincture, but Lancelin refused a second dose with a tiny shake of his head and closed his eyes.

The Blackbird stood on the other side of the bed, the king still at the foot. Mordred appeared to be frozen there, his hands twisted together, his face tight with fear.

Morgana worked in silence, pausing only for more thread, or to cleanse a spot before stitching it. No one else moved, though the procedure took a long time. Braithe lit a candle as the light began to fail. Dusk had gathered beyond the window when Morgana, with a little inadvertent groan, finally straightened. “It is done, my lord.”

Lancelin exhaled, puffing his lips. Braithe had thought he was sleeping, but she realized he had simply been coping with the pain of the needle.