Goddess of Legend (36 page)

“That is the goal. But, Isabel? Countess Isabel? A word?” he said, crooking his finger at her.

“I’m guessing I am going to hear more than one. And most of them will be of the swearing kind.”

The women around the table laughed.

“You are right. But words we will have. Now, please.”

“Shall I accompany you, Countess?” Mary said.

Oh, great, now she had people ready to attack him should he make any threatening moves or words against her. His own people. He had definitely lost control of this entire castle.

“No need, Mary,” Isabel said. “Not even Excalibur at his side worries me. However, should my head roll back in here, no longer attached to the rest of my body, you may correctly assume I sadly overestimated my trust in your king.”

 

 

“VERY funny,” Arthur said as he dragged Isabel into his study.

“Have Mordred and his men returned yet?”

“They have.”

“The mission successful?”

“He feels so. Although he could not wait to rip those braids from his head. And they were not happy about the dresses.”

“It was only for added protection. Should any enemy sneak up upon them—”

“They would first believe they were dealing with helpless women, yes, I get it. You realize, of course, the irony of that ruse.”

“What do you mean?”

“You are using men’s beliefs of helpless females against them.”

“Hey, if they’re dumb enough, use whatever you have.”

“We have ten men imprisoned. Those who Mordred and his men caught with that ruse.”

“Cool! Now let’s hope that many others are enticed to stop long enough to taste the pastries and mead.”

“They are men galloping into battle.”

“Well, even men galloping into battle get hungry and thirsty.”

“Mordred is quite proud, Isabel. He, I am thinking, feels he has accomplished an amazing feat this day.”

“He has. Good for him. Now, I have another thought.”

He stared at her. “Why does this worry me?”

“Because you are so accustomed to traditional blood and guts warring that you don’t get the fine art of trickery.”

“And what trickery have you in mind, now?”

“Well, not trickery, perhaps, but a form of defense.”

“And that would be?”

“Light a fire. A big one.”

“I will not burn down Camelot, Isabel.”

“No, no, I don’t mean here. I mean far enough in the forest to cut off all trails leading to Camelot. Those not dumb enough to stop to take advantage of our lovely food and drink gifts will be stopped by a wall of fire. You gave me the idea when you warned Lance not to start a fire he could not contain. If you start a fire, a contained fire, blocking their way to the castle, you cut them off before they can even invade.”

Arthur looked down at this woman, this utterly amazing woman. “And your plans?”

“Will not work should we leak them. Trust me, Arthur, no women will be harmed during the making of this battle.”

“What?”

“Never mind, was just a joke.”

“You are so strange, Isabel.”

“But you love that about me.”

“I am utterly perplexed by that about you.”

“At least I’m not boring.”

“That, Countess Isabel, is the truest of truths.”

Again he kissed her, as fiercely as he had just hours ago. Then he took her hand, leading her back out of his study.

“Where are you going?” she asked.

“To start a fire. And you are going back to continue planning. That room, that table, was first meant for something completely different. But now I see so clearly that it has value so deeper than that. And, by the by, you love me, in case you needed to be reminded.”

“I do, and I didn’t.”

She began walking back to the round table room when she heard him call, “I love you!”

And then, “Oh, for crying out loud, Frederick. I meant her, not you.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

THE battle, thank the gods, never happened.

Not a single sword had to be used, not a single arrow fired. In the day following the attack that failed, Arthur’s men combed the trails and discovered the bodies of many men, one of them Richard of Freemont, who turned out to be a fat pig who would never turn down the thought of pastry or mead.

Isabel, Mary, Jenny and Gwen were once again gathered in Isabel’s chambers, as Mary attempted to fix the hair of those she’d had to butcher.

Jenny and Gwen had supported the cause, as had Mary, who chopped her own hair to help make the braids.

“You did not hear this from me, Countess,” Jenny said, “but the speaking around the castle is that the women were disappointed they did not get the opportunity to thwack a single bad man.”

“We can only be happy about that. But I will thwack you if you continue to refuse to call me Isabel.”

“Give it up, Jenny,” Mary said as she worked on Gwen’s hair. “You will not win. Isabel will wear you down.”

“And I want you all to please call me Gwen.”

Jenny froze. “What?” she said, looking around at them. “I have already asked this of you two. I am now asking this of Jenny. What is the problem with this?”

“You are the queen,” Jenny whispered.

“Who is sitting upon the floor, having fun with women she has come to see as friends. I would like you to view me as the same.”

“Mary,” Isabel said. “Get that razor out of the way.”

Mary sat back, the razor in the hand behind her.

Isabel leaned forward and pulled Gwen into a hug. “You are a friend, Gwen. And a very good one.”

She sat back and pointed. “Now you and you. Admit you consider Gwen a great friend. After all, we have shared pickle stories. Only friends do that.”

“Oh, James would just die if he knew,” Mary said, and then hugged her queen. “I very much consider you a friend, my queen.”

“Mary,” Isabel growled.

“Gwen,” Mary answered, although it was an obviously trying moment for her. “Will take some time to get used to that.”

“It will just be among the pickle sisters,” Isabel said.

They all fell over laughing. It took minutes for them to sit back up, although they were all holding their tummies.

“Your turn, Jenny,” Isabel said. She pointed at her chest. “Isabel.” She pointed at Gwen. “Gwen. Now go ahead, spit it out. Or the three of us might be forced to describe the two walnuts you can expect to find under that pickle.”

Jenny stared, but then joined in the laughter. “I wish an explanation first, afore I concede.”

“Oh, good gods, no, Jenny,” Gwen said. “These are treasures you must find for yourself.”

“Oh, a treasure hunt? I love a treasure hunt. I am very good at those.”

“We must get this girl married,” Isabel said. “So she may go hunting.”

“Ashton wants her,” Mary said, “but she has refused. At least three times, right, Jenny?”

Jenny blushed. “Yes, that is true.”

“Why?” Isabel asked. “Do you not care for him? I met him just yester morning . . . in a way . . . and I must say he is a very handsome young warrior.”

“It is just that I feared ...”

“What?”

Jenny looked at Gwen. “I feared losing my position as the queen’s servant.”

“What?” Gwen and Isabel said at the same time. “Why would you believe this, Jenny?” Gwen finished.

“You told me so, Your Highness.”

“When did I e’er say such a thing?”

“You told me that you dreaded the day that I wed, because ’twould mean you would need to find a new maid servant.”

Isabel nearly choked. “You told her that?”

“No! Well, it is possible. But if I uttered such a thing, what I was thinking was that once she married, she would become a wife and would no longer want or need to be of service to me. Jenny, I never presumed you would believe I meant marriage would be the end of my need for you. If anything, I was mourning the thought of ever losing you as servant and . . . friend.”

“Oh, Your Highness. I love being your servant and . . . and friend. I always have.”

“It’s going to take time to bring her around to the first-name-basis thing, Mary,” Isabel whispered, as Jenny and Gwen held on to one another.

“As I said, she is a tough nut to crack,” Mary whispered.

“A walnut?”

Isabel and Mary again fell on their sides.

“Countess,” Mary said, in between giggles. “Should this keep up, my stomach will ache forever.”

“Consider it good exercise for your abs. Then again, so is James.”

“DO you really, truly want to interrupt that?” James asked Arthur, poking his finger at Isabel’s door.

“If I heard correct, James, you have just been complimented on your skills beneath the furs.”

James looked away, attempting, Arthur guessed, to hide a proud smile.

Arthur began stomping his boots against the floor. “I am telling you, James,” he came near to shouting, “the women are in there. Possibly performing that toe-painting thing again.”

James nodded. “But should we interrupt, sir?” he shouted so loud the people in the outskirts of all Briton heard him.

Arthur shook his head, leaning against the wall. When James chimed in, he did it with gusto. “We have need of their help,” he said loudly. “How else will we be able to pull off tonight’s celebration?”

Arthur stomped some more before waving James forward to Isabel’s room.

He knocked.

“Come on in, Arthur. James.”

“How did you know ’twas us?” Arthur asked, feigning innocence.

“Wild guess,” she said.

He found four women sitting on the rushes as if they had just been in a solemn discussion of the merits of pickled eel.

“My apologies for the interruption, ladies. I hope that James and I did not disrupt more battle plans.”

“No, of course not. We were just discussing the merits of—”

“Picked eel?”

“Not quite, but you’re close. More like pickles and nuts.”

And Arthur stared as the three other women bent into laughter.

Isabel waved. “They are giddy with the happiness over winning the battle. Right, ladies?”

“Correct, Countess,” they all managed to choke out.

“I am so in trouble,” Mary said.

“No, you are not, Mary. Is she, James?”

“Should she be?” he asked.

“Depending on how long you two were standing there listening, I would say that you are the one who may be in trouble. But knowing Mary, she is much too sweet to exact revenge.”

She turned on Arthur, which was what he was so hoping to avoid. “You, on the other hand, do you really believe that fake stomping was going to fool anyone?”

“I had hopes,” he said.

“Arthur, I have seen you in action. You could come upon the most acute of cats without making a sound. And yet you stomp your way here?”

“Okay, that was probably dumb.”

“Probably? Please. Just say what you came here to tell us.”

“We wanted to hold a celebration this eve, for the successful events yesterday.”

“We wanted your help in making it as festive as possible,” James added, “as we were somewhat at a loss. We have the kitchens working, but the other details?”

“A party? Jeez, why didn’t you say so?” She looked around. “Ladies, I believe we have work to do.” She looked back. “Please tell me we will not be subjected to more Hester the Jester jokes.”

“’Twill break his heart, Isabel.”

“Okay, Hester’s in. But pickled eel ...”

“Oh, the king already took care of that, lady. He banned it from the night’s menu. I knew not why until this very—oof !” James rubbed his stomach. “He preferred not to offer such.”

Isabel glanced at Arthur, and his heart thrummed. Gods, he wanted her. Maybe this night. Perhaps, because battle had been averted, all nights of his life.

She smiled at him, and he knew she knew his thoughts. “I have one very special request, King Arthur.”

Oh, yes. She could ask for any star in the sky and he would find a way to snatch it for her. “Name it, Countess.”

She looked back at the women. “Gwen, I trust you are going to make the hall beautiful once again.”

Gwen rose, pulling Jenny with her. “Jenny and I will go pick the flowers right now and begin to decorate the hall.”

As they went to leave, Arthur stopped Gwen. “I am proud of you, Guinevere. As is Lance. He is a lucky and happy man. And afore you begin to decorate, perhaps visit him. He is at the cottage, cleaning up after helping to put out the fires.”

She looked up at him and smiled. “I am growing up, Arthur. With any hope, growing wiser. Thank the woman you love for that transformation.”

“I thank her for so many things. But learning wisdom comes from within. That is all you, Gwen. Take the credit for that. Now go see Lance. I am certain that Jenny can begin cutting flowers without you.”