27
Morning broke over Camulod with a hint of cooler breezes and the fragrance of ripening grain.
Braithe loved being here, where everyone from the grandest lady to the humblest kitchen maid seemed to prefer smiling to scowling, laughing to complaining.
She recalled how deeply Arthur had loved it, how devoted he had been to its people, and she mourned for him anew.
Or perhaps it was more accurate to admit that she mourned for him still, and always.
Sir Lancelin had slept most of the night, with Braithe drowsing in the chair beside his bed.
Neither of them stirred until the first dawn light fell through the open curtain, and the sweet air carried away the lingering scent of sickness.
Lancelin turned his head on his pillow and said, still half asleep, “Priestess?”
“No, sir,” Braithe said, coming to stand beside him. “It is I, Braithe. The handmaid.”
“Oh, yes,” he said drowsily. “Sorry. Not awake yet.”
“You slept well.” She touched his forehead and found it cool and dry, a good sign. “I will just glance at the priestess’s handiwork, and then I will fetch her for you.”
He made no demur. She pulled back the quilt to examine his wound. Beneath the lingering sheen of the yarrow and goldenseal paste, the redness had already faded to a surly sort of pink. She said, “I will just put another layer of paste over this, if you will allow me.”
I would rather Morgana did it.
Without realizing he had not spoken aloud, Braithe answered, “If that is your wish, my lord, I will tell her.”
Not until Lancelin gave her a startled look, with a hiss of indrawn breath, did she realize what had happened. She took a quick backward step, dropping the quilt, pressing a hand to her lips. “Oh, sir, I am sorry! I am still half-asleep myself, and I—I did not mean to—”
Wincing, he pushed himself up to a sitting position. “Braithe, is that what they taught you in the White City? To hear the thoughts of others?”
“No, it was not—it’s hard to explain. I was not taught, but… I found I could do it while I was there, where there is so much magic it runs in the streets like water. I thought, when I left the White City, that it would probably stop.”
He tilted his head, his dark eyes shining with interest. “You can do it at will?”
“It seems so. But, sir, I did not listen to your thoughts intentionally!” She pushed at her hair, knowing her face had reddened and wishing she could stop it. “When we were dealing with the fae, it was useful.”
“I would say so.” He leaned back, bracing himself against the headboard. “Please don’t tell the priestess what I—what I thought.”
“I promise. Again, I am sorry.”
“No need,” he said. “But you have given me something to consider. Anyone in my position would find it advantageous to know what other people are thinking.”
“The gift may yet fade,” she said.
“When will you know?”
She could only spread her hands and shake her head. In a muddle of feelings, chagrin mixed with hope, embarrassment with excitement, she bowed and fled his bedchamber.
Morgana blinked her eyes open into the pale sunrise that meant autumn was not far off.
Soon the first fragrance of woodsmoke would float across Camulod, and the reapers would gather in the fields to stock the haymows and fill the millers’ bins.
On the Isle, the apples would be ready to be picked, the acolytes chattering and calling to each other as they climbed ladders with their baskets.
Morgana swung her bare feet to the floor and stretched her long arms overhead. Braithe had not come to wake her, and she hoped that meant Lancelin had spent an easy night. She stood, shrugged out of her nightdress, and went to the washbasin. She would go to him and let Braithe have her rest.
She dressed in her black robe and gave her hair a quick brush, twisting it into a long rope to hang over her shoulder. As she was stepping out into the corridor, she saw Braithe coming toward her. “Brat?” she said, suddenly concerned. “Is Sir Lancelin—”
“He slept well, and his wound looks good,” Braithe said. “He wants to see you.”
“I am on my way. Is there anything specific?”
She thought Braithe hesitated, just a fraction, but then her handmaid shook her head. “No. Shall I bring breakfast to you there?”
“Yes. For us both. If he feels well enough, some beef broth and toast would be good.”
“I will fetch it.”
Morgana found Lancelin propped on extra pillows, with a clean sheet over him and a cup of water close at hand. “Braithe tells me you slept well, sir.”
His lean face had better color this morning, and when she looked into his eyes, she saw the gleam of intelligence and subtle humor that she remembered so well. Too well. He said, “I could get out of this bed, I think.”
She bent and lifted up the edge of the sheet to look at his wound. “Not yet,” she pronounced, as she covered him again. “Not for some time, I fear. Although I believe the danger is past.”
“I expected to die of this wound.”
She shivered at the thought but tried to hide it by speaking crisply. “I certainly hope you will not, but we will take no chances.”
“Yes, Priestess.” His narrow mouth quirked. “I will obey your command.”
“Good.” She sat in the chair beside the bed, tucking her hands into her sleeves.
“We did not expect to meet again, did we?”
To her shame, her cheeks warmed. “We did not. I suppose we have learned that some things cannot be predicted.”
“I’m glad of it. Not of being slashed by a Saxon sword, but of the chance to see you once more.”
She had to look away. She could not meet that dark, canny gaze without her heart showing in her own eyes. “It seems our paths are meant to cross.” She spoke as lightly as she was able to in the moment, but she doubted he was deceived.
Lancelin was a temptation she thought she had put behind her for good, but now, in his presence, aware of his long body so close, the old treacherous warmth flickered in her breast. There was nothing new for them to say to one another.
Her circumstance had not changed. Her Temple vow still held, despite Emerlyn’s thoughts on the matter.
She forced herself to look back at him as she changed the subject. “Braithe is going to bring us breakfast.”
“Ah, Braithe.” He shifted a little, revealing that his wound pained him more than he would admit. “I want to talk to you about her.”
“About Braithe?”
“Yes. It would seem your handmaid has a special gift.”
Morgana’s heartbeat stuttered. Warily, she said, “Braithe has many gifts.”
“I concur, but this one in particular could be useful to the king.”
Morgana’s heart jolted again, and she felt something new, a chill, the icy sensation of premonition. “I wish you would speak plainly,” she said.
“She hears thoughts.”
“Sometimes.”
“She heard mine very clearly.” Morgana frowned, and Lancelin added hastily, “She didn’t mean to. She was still half asleep.”
“What did she hear?”
It was Lancelin’s turn to flush and to avert his gaze. He fingered the edge of his sheet, revealing his discomfort. “I would rather not say,” he said at length. “It was not the content of my thought but the fact that she heard it that matters.”
“Why does it matter?”
His eyes brightened with enthusiasm even as the chill expanded in Morgana’s breast. “Just imagine,” he said, “what a boon it would be to know when someone is trying to deceive the king! Your little handmaid could sit beside him at audiences, or even when the knights meet around the table, and she would know if someone is not speaking the truth.”
Braithe appeared at that moment, a tray in her hands, and Lancelin said swiftly, softly, “We will talk of this later.”
Morgana was glad Lancelin could not hear her own thought just then. Do not take her from me!
Idhri slept late that morning, not waking until the sun was high above the lake.
He stretched and yawned, wishing he could stay right here in bed, listening to the sounds of cows lowing and sheep bleating, and Emma humming to herself in the kitchen.
It was the most peaceful he had felt since his memories returned.
He plumped his pillow, thinking perhaps he would sleep more, but the scene of Skye casually ending Ainslie’s life unfolded again in his mind, and he sat bolt upright, his heart burning with renewed grief and horror.
He wished he could remember his mother as she had been in her life, not in the heartrending moment of her death.
Suddenly, Idhri wanted to pour everything out to Emma.
She was so good, and so kind. She would understand.
She might even, warmhearted woman that she was, accept the truth about him, maybe even persuade Hugh to do the same.
Whatever the outcome, this burden he bore would surely be lighter for the sharing of it.
It would never be fully lifted, but it would not be his alone.
Emma had left a fresh tunic and a new pair of leggings—long and sleek, just what he needed—lying at the foot of his bed.
Idhri hurried to wash and dress and twist his hair into its long braid.
He paused a moment to look into the bit of mirror that hung over his washstand.
He could see his faeness now that he knew what to look for.
His eyes were not the yellow-flecked brown of Skye’s, but they did tilt up at the corners, just a little.
His long jaw and thin blade of a nose were signs, as were the overlong fingers and toes he kept trying to hide.
On the other hand, his eyes were a steady brown. His hair was dark, but not the midnight black of the fae. And his heart, although no one would know it but himself, was completely, painfully human. That was a weakness. It made him vulnerable.
He emerged from his room and went in search of Emma.
He was anxious, but one of the great gifts Emma had given him was trust. He counted on her to do and say the right thing, the loving thing.
When he found her in the kitchen, and she turned with her customary welcoming smile, he folded her in his arms for a moment before persuading her to postpone making his breakfast, to sit at the table with him and listen.
It took a long time for him to explain what had happened, and all that he had remembered.
It was the first time he had spoken aloud of his mother and her murder, and it was difficult.
Braithe had taken the account straight from his mind, but now he had to search for adequate words to describe the cold horror of it, the thoughtless cruelty of her murderer.
Emma sat with her hands to her mouth and tears in her eyes as he confessed he had almost killed Skye, but that the priestess intervened for the sake of his conscience.
He saved the hardest part for last, even as her sympathetic tears flowed down her plump cheeks. He leaned forward and took her hand in his. “Emma,” he said. “There’s something else I have to tell you. I wish I didn’t, but you need to know. Master Hugh needs to know.”
She lifted the hem of her apron to wipe her eyes. “This is already too much for a young lad to deal with, yah?” she said, sniffling.
“It’s not a good thing,” he said.
She smoothed her apron back down and gave him a damp smile. “I’m sure it’s not as bad as you think, lad.”
“It is, though,” he said. He released her hand and sat back, deliberately giving her space in case she reacted badly.
“I learned in the White City how people—both the fae and the humans—feel about half-bloods. People who are half fae, half human. I had never heard the term before, but it turns out—” He had to swallow to moisten his suddenly dry throat.
“It turns out that Skye, the man who murdered my mother, also fathered me. I look like him, I’m sorry to say, and he is fae. That makes me a half-blood.”
Emma’s tears dried, and her face, which had gone pale as she listened to Idhri’s story, flushed its usual pink. “Idhri!” she exclaimed. “I already knew that, silly boy! Of course I did! It’s in your face, in your body, in your eyes!”
His skin prickled with sudden gooseflesh. “You—you knew? Emma, you have never said a word—”
“Nay, nor will I! What difference could it make? You’re half fae. I’m half north country, and your master is from the south. I don’t know another soul from the south, but what does that matter?”
He felt tears of his own begin, tears of joy and gratitude. “Does Master Hugh know?”
“If he doesn’t, I will tell him. I know he doesn’t like the fae, but when he knows you’re half fae, his views will change.
I don’t much care for ’em myself, but I expect there are some I would like.
All kinds of folk in the world.” She put out her hand to grip his arm and give it an affectionate shake.
“We are what we do, my boy, not who our parents were.”
Idhri, his own tears disappearing as if they had never been, pressed his hand over hers. He was almost wordless with relief, but he managed to say, “That sounds like one of Braithe’s stanzas.”
“Braithe! Now, there’s a girl I would like to meet. Tell me more about her.”
The part of his recitation he feared the most had gone by in what seemed a heartbeat’s time.
Idhri was suddenly starving for breakfast and thirsty for a cup of the wonderful cider they made in the Camulod kitchens.
As Emma rose and began preparing these things for him, he told her all about Braithe, the country girl turned priestess’s handmaid, the girl who had, little by little, acquired significant amounts of magic. “You will love her,” he declared.
Emma grinned over her shoulder. “Already do.”