Chapter 25 #2
Nyneve was already in a foul mood when the head kitchen maid asked if she might take the same medicinal brew administered for Guinevere’s migraines to a chamber in the section of the castle reserved for visiting nobles.
“The lady always needs a few days to settle in before announcing she’s here,” Molly said with a wave of her giant wooden spoon.
“Causes quite a stir every damn time, and this year she’s arrived a few months early.
I know you can keep your mouth shut, unlike my kitchen girls.
” She said the last part loudly, looking about the kitchen with a stern gaze.
The maids exchanged glances, a few of them hiding smiles.
Nyneve sighed. Night had fallen a few hours ago.
She still hadn’t slept or eaten more than a heel of bread and a few of the carrots Galen had been pickling.
She wanted a hot goblet of cider and the sheepskin-lined chair by the cottage’s fire.
But she was rather fond of Molly and her big laugh, and how she’d seen that very spoon wielded against men with hands that wandered toward her staff.
“Of course,” Nyneve said, reaching out for the tray a serving girl offered. “Only because I like you, and because you can make sure there’s a big, steaming cider waiting for me when I return.” She beamed at Molly, hopeful.
“Aye,” the kitchen maid replied with a weary sigh. Then she straightened, her expression brightening. “Oi, congratulations are in order, aren’t they? I hear you’ve bewitched the most handsome knight in Camelot.”
Nyneve’s face burned, but it was only because the kitchen was hot, she told herself. “I wouldn’t use the term ‘bewitched,’” she said cautiously, a nervous chuckle escaping her mouth.
“But he is the most handsome man in Camelot, that’s for sure,” the girl chopping parsnips at the big table said, looking toward Nyneve with a sly little smile. “Makes sense, as you’re very beautiful, my lady.”
“Back to work!” Molly shouted, banging her spoon on the counter, but she smiled as Nyneve balanced the tray and headed up the back stairs.
Belatedly, she realized the linen work apron layered over her kirtle was not the appropriate attire for serving a visiting noblewoman, but she was far too tired to do anything about it.
She drew in a deep breath at the top of the stairs, steadying herself before turning into the corridor.
It was busier in this part of the castle—every damn chamber had a full retinue.
“Many happy days, Nyneve!” whispered a passing handmaiden.
“Thank you,” she replied in a hushed voice, forcing a smile.
They’d only announced their intentions to Arthur early this morning, and she already found herself greeted with congratulations left and right.
Only a few hours ago, Lady Alis had been positively delighted to hear the news despite her badly sprained wrist. The noblewoman had beamed at Nyneve, saying she couldn’t believe the two of them made everyone wait so long.
Nyneve still didn’t know what Alis was talking about.
It surprised her how well everyone took the news.
Both she and Mordred were worried they would have to fight to convince the court of their relationship—that they might even need to recruit Guinevere and Galen to spread stories of their courting.
But everyone she spoke to seemed to think she and Mordred becoming betrothed was some kind of inevitability.
Nyneve paused at the visiting lady’s door, shoving that little tangle of confusion into the recesses of her mind. Steadying the tray against her hip, she knocked thrice and announced herself.
“Do come in,” called a cool, elegant voice—like a shaded stream in the steamy heat of August.
Nyneve pushed through the door, coming into an airy chamber with a large bay window and crackling hearth.
A lavish canopied bed awaited beyond a silk screen that shimmered in the firelight, the embroidered swans looking as though they might take flight.
A finely woven stole in an unusual shade of deep umber was thrown over the top, as though someone had hastily undressed.
A little wide-eyed at the beauty, Nyneve glanced about in search of somewhere to set down the tray. By the hearth, she spotted four elegantly carved chairs lounging around a lacquered table. Assuming the lady was bed-bound with her migraine, Nyneve set the tray atop the table.
“Would you like me to prepare a cup and bring it to your bedside, my lady?” she asked, trying not to speak too loudly for the sake of the woman’s headache.
“No, that is all right,” came that cool, rich voice—but this time, right at her elbow.
Nyneve jumped and turned on her heel, coming face to face with a startlingly beautiful woman.
She was tall, gowned in dressing robes the color of seawater, her loose, near-black hair hanging like silken banners to her waist. Her skin was a perfect ivory, her mouth red as a rose, though Nyneve did not think she was even wearing rouge.
There was something about her that felt familiar.
In a wild, childish surge of senseless hope, Nyneve wondered if she might be standing in front of Morgana de Bois of Tintagel, the greatest sorceress in the Isles—and the very person she had been meant to study alongside within Tintagel’s mist-wreathed towers, had her Fate not twisted into a mangled corpse and all this endless shame.
She’d already squandered all those years of study and hard work to be one of the Deceangli Druids’ chosen few sent to apprentice with Morgana, and now her mind saw it fit to taunt her with these baseless imaginings.
Swallowing hard, Nyneve shoved the errant thoughts away, chiding herself for such foolishness. Morgana did not arrive until autumntide. She knew as much from Galen.
“Thank you for bringing this to me,” the noblewoman said as she reached out for the kettle, dragging Nyneve from her thoughts.
“My lady, I am happy to assist you if you are unwell,” the Druid girl said, trying to pick up the clay kettle before the noble lady could. Their fingers brushed, and the air suddenly felt charged, like right before lightning struck. Nyneve stumbled back a half-step before recovering herself.
“What is your name?” the noblewoman asked, her gaze falling onto Nyneve with alarming intensity.
“Lady Or’Afon, my lady,” Nyneve said with a lower curtsy than her station truly called for. “Lady Nyneve Or’Afon. I am a ward of Camelot.”
“Nyneve,” the woman said, one delicately arched eyebrow rising. Nyneve got the distinct feeling that this noblewoman already knew who she was, and she had never liked being at a disadvantage. “Well met.”
The heat from the fire seared Nyneve’s back, but compared to the nexus of magic pulsing from the raven-haired woman in front of her, it felt like almost nothing at all.
“I am sorry to say I am unsure who I am addressing,” Nyneve replied, drawing herself up.
If this visiting noble knew who she was, then she could step out of the serving girl role, regardless of her stained work apron and untidy braid.
Besides, this woman was powerful, perhaps a Druid herself, or at the very least trained by one.
“I am Morgana de Bois of Tintagel,” the woman said, watching Nyneve’s face closely. “It is a pleasure to finally meet you.”