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.”
A new voice spoke from the doorway. “Nor can I.”
They both looked up, and Lancelin said, “My lord!”
Braithe bowed, then brushed at her robe with her hands to straighten it. “My lord, Sir Lancelin is restive, but his wound is not yet healed to my satisfaction.”
King Mordred came into the chamber, smiling.
“So I gather,” he said. He looked well, as if the threat of subversion of his reign had been disturbing his sleep, and now he was able to rest. Braithe was glad to note the air of confidence that shone from his dark eyes.
His shoulders had begun to broaden, and he had taken to wearing his black hair cut short around his jaw, which was an appealing look.
Although he would never make as stalwart a figure as his elder brother, he was beginning to look like the man he would soon be.
He said, “Braithe, I will strive to entertain my champion for a time. No doubt you have other things to do.”
“I would like to take a moment to go into the gardens, sir. I have need of yarrow, and some lavender, if I can find it.”
“On your way, then,” the king said. It was the most confident Braithe had ever seen him. He was still as whip-thin as a boy, but his voice had settled, and he had ceased ducking his head with the shyness that had been so painful to observe.
She bowed again. “I must warn you, sir, your champion requires a strict hand.”
Mordred pulled out the second chair to sit opposite Lancelin. “I will try to meet your standard, Braithe.”
She dimpled at him, shook a warning finger once more at Lancelin, then left them.
With her foraging knife in the pocket of her robe and her herb basket on her hip, Braithe pattered down the stairs of the western tower and outside into the sunshine.
She made her way through the farmer’s gate and on toward the neatly tended rows of the gardens.
The crops glowed in various colors, from the dusty green of carrot tops to the darker emerald of cabbage plants and the white taproots of parsnips showing above the tilled soil.
Three men in wide straw hats were hoeing the earth around a variety of squash, and a woman with her skirt tied up around her knees and a kerchief pulled low over her forehead sprinkled water with a ladle where it was needed.
The scene made Braithe think of the laborers outside the White City, and the notable differences.
There was no overseer here, nor was one needed.
There was no woman aged before her time by brutal labor and too much sun, risking punishment to warn Braithe against the fae.
These Lloegyrians chattered together. They laughed.
Sometimes a snatch of song rose into the morning air, and other laborers would take it up.
They worked hard, bending to their chores, but when they straightened, they held their heads high, and their faces were bright with satisfaction at farming the good soil of Camulod.
Several waved to her, and one called, “Good day, Priestess!”
She waved back, her heart lifting at how well they looked, how content, how peaceful.
As she left them behind and walked on into the woods, her cheerful mood faded.
She would always grieve for the enslaved humans of fae country.
She recalled Didi’s attempt to be kind as they worked together in the Council Hall, and she wished there were something she could do to help her.
She couldn’t imagine what might become of Gwen, whose entire life had been stolen from her.
At least Faolin would no longer be able to torture her, but what would she do with her remaining years?
It didn’t seem fair that she would become a servant, but evidently that appealed to her more than starting anew in a land now strange to her.
Braithe thought there should be an answer to all of this, but it was too big a question for her to take on.
She found a clearing dotted with yarrow’s golden blossoms, where she took as much as she thought she could use, leaving the rest to reseed.
She wandered on, down toward the lake’s edge, searching for a lavender bush.
She remembered seeing one on the shore, in a sunny spot beyond the tree line.
She had no need to hurry. She strolled past a small, late-blooming patch of milk violets and stepped over a tiny brook that trickled between red clusters of cow-wheat as it curved toward the lake.
In the clear water, minnows darted between shining stones, and Braithe bent to greet them.
The lavender bush was right where she remembered it. She took out her foraging knife and cut a dozen stems to expand her supply of tincture. She hoped a dose of it would help Sir Lancelin sleep longer at night and perhaps ease his impatience as he waited for his wound to fully heal.
When she had cut enough for her purpose, she straightened.
She sniffed the rich smell of lavender that clung to her fingertips as she looked around to see if she had missed anything.
She spotted a tiny patch of wild strawberries that had ripened.
She picked them as a treat for Lancelin, then decided her basket was full enough.
She tucked a few loose yarrow sprigs deeper into the bottom so they wouldn’t fall out and shook a bit of dirt from the hem of her robe before turning to walk back to the castle.
“Braithe!”
She looked over her shoulder and saw Idhri coming toward her.
She could have sworn he had grown in the short time since they left the White City and its terrors behind.
Like the king, he was swiftly emerging from his boyhood.
She waited for him to reach her, admiring the way his dark hair gleamed in the sun and his long legs covered the ground.
“Idhri, well met,” she said. “You and your master have returned from your recent journey, I see.”
“Yesterday,” he said. “Emma sent me out to see if there are some turnips ripe enough to add to our dinner.”
“I think there will be.” They turned to walk back through the garden to the row where the turnips were showing their milky tops. “And how is Emma, and Master Hugh?”
“Both well.” Idhri smiled down at her. “I was foolish to think they might be upset when they learned I am a half-blood. Turns out Emma already knew.”
“Oh, Idhri! So now you know it makes no difference, nor ever has.”
“Yes. She is such a good woman, Braithe. When I have the turnips, will you come with me to meet her at last?”
“I will!” Braithe declared, then laughed. “I have left the king of Lloegyr on duty in the sick room, so I have time.”