The Angel's Fall (The Fay Morgan Chronicles Book 6) by Katherine Sparrow Page B
Book: The Angel's Fall (The Fay Morgan Chronicles Book 6) by Katherine Sparrow
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Authors: Katherine Sparrow
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spike to the castle’s entrance, woe to any who thought to challenge the realm of the mighty Pendragon.
Arthur had nearly gone with him. Uther had wanted that. But my half-brother had clearly not wanted to battle beside a cranky and churlish father, so had made up some excuse that he must stay and deal with a feud between some minor lords and an issue of sheep.
Such things could lead to wars if left festering, Arthur had told our Father.
Uther had snarled and coughed up discolored globs of phlegm.
That day on the battle field, his opponents had named him the Half-Dead King, taunting and laughing as he’d fought on the mucky grounds where swords and horses, battle axes and shields clashed. The rebel lord had rallied more men to his side, bolstered by the rumors of the mighty Uther's constant coughing and his slumping form on his black horse. The battle dragged on. It ended, as everyone knew it would, with the rebels left slaughtered on the field, and my father’s army victorious. But the day had gone long, and they’d had to camp out on a rainy and damp night, wearing wet leathers and small clothes, and all had lain shivering, even the King, inside the luxuries of his tent.
Some knights told the story that Uther had woken in the night and gone to the small pool of green water in a nearby faerie glen. Some say he was tricked into drinking poisoned water that killed him quickly. But as no under folk ever claimed that murder for their own, my guess was that the consumptions felled my father, as normal men fall, and that his most loyal knights made a better story of it, so that long might the story of Uther's end loom large.
In any case, by morning he was dead, and they dragged my father home on a sledge made of woven pine boughs to mask the reek of his rotting body.
The burial was that night, and the coronation the next day, for the powers around the throne knew that another king must be put in place immediately, lest the small and under folk get any ideas that they might not need a king at all.
Camelot was abuzz with a thousand small chores on the day of Arthur’s coronation. All day long it teemed with flocks of priests arguing about the correct readings and blessings while the castle's workers hung garlands and spread rushes across the cold stone floor. The cooks slaughtered four whole pigs and grumbled that the old king couldn't have died in spring, no, it had to be late winter. Turnips served for a coronation dinner? But what could you do.
I'd paced through the castle, roiling with the emotions of a young girl whose father had just died. A hated father. A terrible father. But a father nonetheless who loomed large and whose influences had been wildly formative. I paced around, storming with every step, going over again and again all the things I'd never told Uther Pendragon. All the words I'd held back. All the things I could have said to cut him down or make him truly see me, just once.
Had I ever said half the things I thought on that day, I surely would have been beaten and shackled, at best, and murdered in a public way, most likely. But the freedom of Uther's death unleashed in me the coiled rage of all the wrong he'd done. Some small: the many times he'd made his bastards know their place. Some larger: dragging me away from Avalon and bringing me to this cold castle that knew no freedom nor joy besides the ones I’d stolen for myself.
As I walked down the stone hallways of Camelot, people kept passing by and offering their murmured condolences. These made it all the worse, and I could feel the screams building in me.
Not having the mind to think of where I was going, merely that I wanted to be away from all people, I opened a door into a large and empty room and finally found some silence. A place where I could storm and none would get rained upon. I stomped down the middle of the room on a path set with pine boughs and cedar shavings.
“Gods, Morgan. I can almost taste your anger from here,” a soft
Arthur had nearly gone with him. Uther had wanted that. But my half-brother had clearly not wanted to battle beside a cranky and churlish father, so had made up some excuse that he must stay and deal with a feud between some minor lords and an issue of sheep.
Such things could lead to wars if left festering, Arthur had told our Father.
Uther had snarled and coughed up discolored globs of phlegm.
That day on the battle field, his opponents had named him the Half-Dead King, taunting and laughing as he’d fought on the mucky grounds where swords and horses, battle axes and shields clashed. The rebel lord had rallied more men to his side, bolstered by the rumors of the mighty Uther's constant coughing and his slumping form on his black horse. The battle dragged on. It ended, as everyone knew it would, with the rebels left slaughtered on the field, and my father’s army victorious. But the day had gone long, and they’d had to camp out on a rainy and damp night, wearing wet leathers and small clothes, and all had lain shivering, even the King, inside the luxuries of his tent.
Some knights told the story that Uther had woken in the night and gone to the small pool of green water in a nearby faerie glen. Some say he was tricked into drinking poisoned water that killed him quickly. But as no under folk ever claimed that murder for their own, my guess was that the consumptions felled my father, as normal men fall, and that his most loyal knights made a better story of it, so that long might the story of Uther's end loom large.
In any case, by morning he was dead, and they dragged my father home on a sledge made of woven pine boughs to mask the reek of his rotting body.
The burial was that night, and the coronation the next day, for the powers around the throne knew that another king must be put in place immediately, lest the small and under folk get any ideas that they might not need a king at all.
Camelot was abuzz with a thousand small chores on the day of Arthur’s coronation. All day long it teemed with flocks of priests arguing about the correct readings and blessings while the castle's workers hung garlands and spread rushes across the cold stone floor. The cooks slaughtered four whole pigs and grumbled that the old king couldn't have died in spring, no, it had to be late winter. Turnips served for a coronation dinner? But what could you do.
I'd paced through the castle, roiling with the emotions of a young girl whose father had just died. A hated father. A terrible father. But a father nonetheless who loomed large and whose influences had been wildly formative. I paced around, storming with every step, going over again and again all the things I'd never told Uther Pendragon. All the words I'd held back. All the things I could have said to cut him down or make him truly see me, just once.
Had I ever said half the things I thought on that day, I surely would have been beaten and shackled, at best, and murdered in a public way, most likely. But the freedom of Uther's death unleashed in me the coiled rage of all the wrong he'd done. Some small: the many times he'd made his bastards know their place. Some larger: dragging me away from Avalon and bringing me to this cold castle that knew no freedom nor joy besides the ones I’d stolen for myself.
As I walked down the stone hallways of Camelot, people kept passing by and offering their murmured condolences. These made it all the worse, and I could feel the screams building in me.
Not having the mind to think of where I was going, merely that I wanted to be away from all people, I opened a door into a large and empty room and finally found some silence. A place where I could storm and none would get rained upon. I stomped down the middle of the room on a path set with pine boughs and cedar shavings.
“Gods, Morgan. I can almost taste your anger from here,” a soft
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