Free I, Morgana by Felicity Pulman Page A

although I can see he has been wounded; a bloodied bandage is bound around his left arm. Having learned much of healing from the priestess of Avalon and the infirmarian at the priory, I know enough to tell that the wound is clean and is not deep enough to be dangerous. I smile at Arthur, and he smiles back at me. I recognize that smile from his childhood; it is a brave smile, one that covers a knowledge of hurt and harm, of doubts and fears. A smile that rips my heart into shreds.
    When first I devised my plan, I did so with hatred and a desire for revenge; it seemed eminently sensible. Now I am not sure I can go through with it. I call on Merlin’s early teaching to help me. You have to think that raven, be a raven , he’d said. I have to remember that I am no longer Arthur’s sister, Morgana. Instead, I am a beautiful young woman, ripe for seduction by a young and handsome king. I have no past and, after tonight, no future either.
    I take his arm and say softly, “I can see that you are hurt and in need of comfort, my liege. I pray you, walk with me a way for I have remedies to heal your wound and …” I pause, eyes downcast and eyelashes fluttering demurely, “… and I am willing to do what I may for you in any other way you desire, sire.” I raise my face and our eyes meet. In that instant I know he has understood my meaning, and he is mine for the taking.
    I lead him back to the priory and the hawthorn hedge, and silently say a special chant that I hope will open the portal wide enough to admit strangers. I pass through and, to my relief, Arthur is able to follow me. Together, we walk through an avenue of trees so closely growing that their leaves form a green tunnel over our heads. Arthur is not aware that we have just left behind all that is known to him as the Otherworld opens before us. There is a crowd pressed around a great bonfire, just as I had been told there would be on this night of nights, and I lead Arthur toward it. He shivers with the wind on his back; its icy breath frosts our noses and ears and I press closer to him for warmth.
    Myrddin, the Druid priest, is a tall man, with long flowing hair and a nose like an eagle’s beak. He raises his arms to the sky. The fire lights his face, throwing into relief his stern features and the coarse strands of his long gray beard.
    “Oh Dark One, Lord of Death, grant us a boon this night and let us walk in safety,” he intones. “Take none of us for your sacrifice, for we are few in number and we live in desperate times. Our land trembles under the tread of rapacious invaders. Their warriors nip at our heels. Our men are brave but when they leave to fight our enemies, our homes and our livelihood depend on children and the courage of women. The winter will be cold and hard for all of us. Seek what ye will, Lord of Darkness, but protect our land and leave our people in peace, we beseech thee.”
    He bends to raise a mighty branch of oak. Sweating with the effort, he thrusts the log onto the sacred bonfire. It flares up, crackling and spitting its fury. The wind carries sparks high into the dark night, fireflies to light the path walked by the dead.
    “Who is this priest?” Arthur whispers. “I have never seen him before.”
    “He’s someone new, come to Glastonbury from across the sea.” I hope my explanation is enough to lull any suspicions Arthur may have.
    Two acolytes stagger forward, their shoulders bowed under the weight of a huge stag. Its feet are bound but it struggles still, wild with panic in the face of imminent death. Reverently, the acolytes lay the beast at the priest’s feet.
    The Druid raises his hands in blessing over the stag. “We give you this offering with a full heart and a prayer that you will protect Riothamus from the swords of our enemies. Our hopes rest in the power of his right hand when it is raised to protect us against them, and we pray that you will keep him safe this night and until the threat against our land is