Page 88 of The Faerie Handmaid

Morgana had not answered that, because she had no idea of how to do so. Now, in the bracing air of a cool morning, she assisted him down the path to the dock, keeping a firm hand under his arm and proceeding at a safe pace. Bran followed with the Blackbird’s bag and her own. She had left her basket in Braithe’s bedchamber, a sign she was turning its responsibilities over to her handmaid. She would not allow herself to consider that this state of things might be permanent, but the possibility lingered at the edges of her mind, threatening to sidle in.

Braithe came hurrying down the path at the very last minute, just as Hugh, the boatman, was helping to settle the Blackbird on the bench seat. He had provided extra cushions and a rug for the mage’s lap. Idhri was in the bow, ready to assist. He had bowed to Morgana, but he grinned hugely at Braithe, emanating good cheer at being home once again. She smiled back and wished him good morning.

Morgana paused on the dock to speak to her. “Have you seen Sir Lancelin this morning?”

“Yes, Priestess, and he is begging to be allowed out of his bed!”

“I will leave it to you, brat, to decide when that is safe.”

“His wound is still tender. I think several days before the stitches can be removed.”

“I agree.” There was really little more to be said, but Morgana found herself reluctant to say her farewell. “When he is healed,” she began, but Braithe forestalled her.

“I will come home,” Braithe said. “I know Dafne will look after you until then.”

“Dafne. Yes.”

But Dafne was no help in the anteroom. She was no one Morgana could confide in or stroll with. It would be a lonely time, but it was obvious Braithe was not worried about that. Braithe loved being at Camulod, even without Arthur. Perhaps that was to be celebrated, especially because it could not be helped.

“Take care, Priestess,” Braithe said.

“And you, brat,” Morgana replied. She didn’t try to embrace Braithe, though she longed to do it. As she climbed into the boat to take her seat, she remonstrated with herself. What weakness, to be so loath to part with her handmaid, as if she would never see her again! All she said aloud was, “Stay safe,” and Braithe responded brightly.

“Of course! I am always safe at Camulod!”

Morgana shivered with a little chill, the familiar quiver of premonition. It nearly made her climb back out of the boat, and it nagged at her all the way to the Isle.

29

A few quiet days followed the departure of Morgana and the Blackbird. Braithe was glad of her nursing duties, or the time would have hung heavy on her hands. Loria allowed her to help in small ways—keeping Lancelin’s chamber clean, changing the bed linens—but the maid flatly refused to allow her to carry laundry downstairs or to empty the chamber pot, pronouncing over and over that a priestess does not perform those tasks. She persisted in referring to Braithe as a priestess, as did many others in the castle, and Braithe had given up trying to explain. Braithe spent most of her time sitting beside Lancelin’s bed, trying to keep him from escaping his bedchamber. She watched his wound with a critical eye, not yet satisfied that its edges had fully closed, especially where the cut had been deepest.

There was one moment, the day after Morgana left Camulod, when a stray thought of Lancelin’s appeared in her mind. She had been working on not intruding upon his thoughts or anyone else’s, and she had gotten better with practice. She had also gotten better at hearing thoughts if she meant to do it. That was how she heard him think, I miss her. I have no right, but I do.

Braithe caught a breath, but fortunately it was a silent one. She busied herself straightening a pillow that didn’t need it, but she sensed the longing in Lancelin’s heart. It was tinged with a deep, lifelong loneliness, an ache that was no less poignant for being held at a distance.

It made Braithe question the need and the wisdom of the Temple vows, and for a long time that afternoon, as her patient dozed and she sat mending the hem of a nightdress, she wondered who had declared such a commitment, and why. She dared to think, rebelliously, that it was a bit like the Rule of the Royal Council, a stricture that had outlived its usefulness.

A stanza came to her mind:

Even the wolf

Loves something.

She thought she understood that one now.

Three days later, after Lancelin had tormented her for an hour about refusing to let him out of bed, she capitulated. She decreed it would be safe for him to sit up at the table to eat his midday meal of cold meat and freshly picked greens, but only if he went straight back to his bed afterward. Loria came for his tray when he had finished. Soon after, she returned to empty the chamber pot.

As the maid carried it out, Lancelin looked after it with disgust. “I am perfectly well enough to visit the privy,” he muttered.

“Sir Lancelin,” Braithe said, holding up a finger. “That would mean stairs, so I forbid it. I promised Priestess Morgana you would not exert yourself until I am certain your wound is healed enough. Those stitches—”

“The stitches itch!” he snapped. “I need distraction!”

Braithe put her hands on her hips and tilted her head, fixing him with her most determined gaze. “Embroidery, perhaps?” she said pertly. “Or I could have Loria bring you some vegetables to peel, if you prefer.”

“Impudent girl!” he said, but more gently. “I can’t help it. I need action! Indeed, what I need is sword practice.”

“You would tear your stitches out, sir. I can’t let you do that.”