Goddess of Legend (7 page)

“That’s so kind of you to say, Countess.” Mary headed straight for the third trunk and pulled out a beautiful gown. “That’s more rose than pink, Mary.”

“This is not your . . . pink?”

“I think this will compliment your fair skin, Lady. Any shade lighter and ’twould not do your beauty justice.”

Now that’s what Isabel liked. A chambermaid with excellent taste. “Yes, you and I are going to get along really well, Mary.”

“I am assured we are, m’lady.”

Isabel didn’t even need to ask who, or what, assured Mary as Isabel again touched her necklace. “Bring on the wine and the bath.”

“Done.”

“How are you with hair, Mary?”

“Do you need me to be good with hair, Countess?”

“I really do.”

“Then, yes, m’lady, I am very good with hair.”

 

 

As primitive as this all was, Isabel felt amazingly pampered. The gallons of bath water carted to her room had been too hot at first, but Mary had sprinkled lavender and rosemary in the tub. It was wonderfully soothing. Afterward Mary made good on her promise, roping Isabel’s hair and then wrapping it into something of a bun, but with a twist, then a long, elaborate ponytail.

Mary had also added a brass broach to the left side of Isabel’s waist. By the time Tom and Dick escorted her down to the dining area, she felt almost queenlike. Time to meet the real queen. Wonderful.

 

 

ISABEL met both Lancelot and Guinevere at supper that night. Gwen, as King Arthur called her, was as nice as nice could be. She was a beautiful young thing; young being the operative word. Her hair was auburn, pulled back in an elaborate bun, a circlet of tiny gems gracing her disgustingly devoid-of-a-single-wrinkle forehead.

Isabel wanted to ask what face cream she used, until it occurred to her that Gwen was still nearly a child. Isabel wasn’t allowed to date at her age, much less marry and cheat on her husband. If Gwen hadn’t been so sweetly gracious, Isabel would have loved to hate her. The queen had the scent of rose petals emanating from her, which was a welcome smell compared to the sweat and animal odors that invaded even this dining room.

Of course, there were sweaty men and dogs hanging around here, too, so no big surprise there. Isabel wished she’d paid more attention to the ingredients in Oust to see if she could replicate the product here.

Gwen’s dress was a shimmery silver, with an elaborate chain belted around her disgustingly tiny waist. Isabel guessed that belt wouldn’t fit around half the beefy men’s arms who were standing at the huge rectangular dining room table.

“’Tis an honor to have you grace our hall, Countess,” Guinevere said. “We have been anticipating your arrival with much gladness. My husband informs me that this will mean a great and mutually beneficial treaty between our two lands.”

Oh, great, so Gwen wasn’t a twit. She kept her pulse on politics, too. Was there
nothing
Isabel could find to dislike about her? Other than the fact that Gwen had the luxury of sleeping every night beside the one man who so far floated Isabel’s longship?

She felt a thump on her chest.

Isabel attempted another deep curtsy, which would have failed miserably if Tom and Dick hadn’t held on. She really needed to practice this bowing thing. “I’m honored to have been invited to Camelot, Your Highness. Your hospitality is much appreciated.”

Gwen laughed softly, which was also disgustingly perfect. “Please, Arthur and I do not ken to the formalities. Unless you want that I should bow to you as well when we meet.”

Horror of horrors. Isabel had a flashback of being in the Far East with the “you bow, I bow, you bow, I bow, who gets to bow last” thing. “That works perfectly for me,” Isabel said, then nearly groaned at the shocked look on the faces around her. “What I mean, your Highness, is that we should give our knees a break.”

Gwen actually grinned. “Methinks it is an excellent suggestion. Perhaps all of that bowing is also to blame for so many back ailments among our men?”

“Methinks, you might be correct,” Isabel said. “Perhaps a good chiropra—”

Isabel worked hard not to react to the bang to her chest. “What I meant to say, is that my man, Dick, here, is a wonder with back problems.” Very true. He was her chiropractor in the normal world and a miracle worker, considering how much she had to contort her body to get the right shots. “Perhaps he could work some magic on your ailing men.”

Many men standing by the table rubbed their backs and finally smiled their half-toothless smiles at Dick. Even a few of the serving maids took a second glance.

Dick kicked Isabel in the leg while smiling wildly. Then he bowed again and said, “At your service, Your Highness. And might I add that Tom, here, is a specialist with teeth? Should you have anyone in the castle who must needs tooth attention, he would be more than willing to offer assistance.”

Tom turned green at all of the toothless smiles that suddenly swung his way. “Always at your service, Your Highness,” he said, reaching his leg around to kick Dick.

Tom had been Isabel’s dentist forever and friend for at least half of that. He gave her a “what have you gotten me into?” look, and she gave him a shrug. After all, she hadn’t mentioned it.

Just then Harry came limping in from the great hall, his hair still wet from having to make himself presentable and his gait still showing he was hurting from the kick to his gonads. It obviously hurt, badly.

“And this is Harry,” Isabel announced, “my other man. He is the one incredibly good with animals. He’s been my ve—”

“Ouch!”

Everyone stared at her.

“My animal master and devoted . . . friend, for many moons. As have Tom and Dick. In Dumont, we are all friends, working together.”

There was a silence while Harry attempted to bow to Arthur and Gwen, which looked painful to everyone. To a male, every single one of them in the dining room winced.

But then they followed their king’s lead, holding up their steins.

“I am assuming you took one for the Gipper, master Harry,” Arthur said. “He has always been a bit overly accurate with his legs.”

“Oh, wait a minute,” Isabel said, “you have a horse named Gipper?”

Gwen spoke up first. “I’m afraid Gipper is mine. And my apologies, sir, for his . . . exuberance. Sir Ronald of Reagan gifted him to me at our matrimonial ceremony. He is a beautiful stud but can be much of a handful. But not as taxing as most.”

Harry bowed again, then headed straight to Isabel. “He’s not going to be studding anytime soon. The sonofabitch nearly blew off my balls,” he whispered.

“Please don’t tell me ...”

“No little Gippers showing up soon. Actually ever. And it felt good.”

At the supper table, Arthur spent a few minutes introducing his men as well.

James was his first man, whatever that was. But he was bigger than any professional wrestler, so Isabel was guessing he was also a bodyguard of sorts.

Tristan, his second man, who was only slightly smaller than James and who she recognized from the woods, bowed his head. Isabel waved at him, hoping he hadn’t seen her bare butt while she’d stopped to pee. Unfortunately, Tristan grinned at her, which gave her the feeling that at least he had.

And on and on with other men who meant something to Arthur or Gwen. It was a big freaking table.

And then, finally, she was introduced to Lancelot. He stood and bowed more deeply than all of the other men. He was her target, apparently, but not a single one of her hormones charged to life.

Lancelot, a darling blusher, was as shy as shy could be. To be certain, he was a striking young man, having light brown hair with sun-streaked golden threads that Isabel would love to challenge her hairdresser, Pelo, to try to duplicate. When he finally managed to meet her gaze, she figured he had hazel eyes, which were looking more green than brown at the moment because of the forest green tunic he was wearing. He stumbled his way through the greeting, which was rather sweet. But not the least bit sexy, unlike the hearty laughter with which King Arthur had greeted her. Damn, damn and triple damn, not a single sex gene in Isabel’s body fired up.

The rest of the King’s men were a little grumpy during supper, and she was figuring that it was because she’d asked for her men to be invited.

Isabel was in a bit of a pickle. Her attraction to Lancelot amounted to less than zero. Less than the pickled eel placed in front of her at supper. Less than Hester the court jester’s jokes, which were sadly lame.

As was he, in an endearing way. He had to be seventy if he was a day, and the blue and purple silklike robes didn’t do much for his pasty skin. But Hester tried so hard to entertain the crowd that Isabel decided he was a cool enough fellow, anyway.

Arthur winked at her, and then so did Hester before he bowed and took his leave. “What fun, yes?” Isabel said. Pretty much no one agreed with her. Except for Arthur, who couldn’t stop grinning.

A ton of food was delivered to the table. Almost all of it meat. Even though she was not a vegetarian—not completely, but for the most part—she was totally grossed out. Especially with the meat. Boar, rabbit, squirrel and, oh man, more pickled eel. The best she found were cabbage and beets. Not her favorite veggies.

Isabel had never been a liquor person, but tonight she was drinking like a sailor, hoping alcohol would help in her mission. Both to eat the eel without throwing up and to try to seduce the child knight who was just as inedible.

So far, just not working. He was cute enough, if you liked boys. Which she had, when she’d been a girl. But as handsome as he was, he was young. Way too young.

The sad thing was, he had no interest in Isabel, either. He had eyes for only Gwen. Which was apparent to everyone in the room except for King Arthur, who was so busy talking about this important meeting with other knights of the realm that he seemed oblivious to the looks exchanged between Gwen and the cute boy.

Seemed that everyone at the table watched and scowled, but felt nothing could be done to stop it as long as the king said nothing. Either the king had forbidden all to even
think
about the possibility, or he’d made certain no one voiced it.

She felt so bad about it all, but then again she had other things to mourn over.

Like the eel.

Like her total disinterest in Lancelot.

Like Lancelot’s total disinterest in her.

Like Guinevere’s total interest in Lancelot.

She was in magical hell.

Isabel could not fix all things at once, but there were a couple over which she had some control. She politely requested that a servant remove the eel, the boar, the rabbit and the squirrel, and then politely excused herself to go fashion a barf bag.

CHAPTER SIX

OKAY, so she was a little tipsy. But not so much that she didn’t notice that Gwen and Lancelot had excused themselves almost at the same time. They didn’t even try to pretend. It broke Isabel’s heart for Arthur. He had to know. And yet he didn’t seem to know. Or care.

“Would you enjoy a tour of the castle, Countess?” Arthur asked her, as the evening meal had thankfully concluded.

Thank God for Mary, who had met her in the garderobe, carrying a bowl of mint. Otherwise she’d be afraid that her breath would topple trees.

“I would love it, sir.” What she wanted was a tour of his body, but the castle would have to do for now.

“The gardens,” he said. “They mean much to Gwen. For a reason I cannot fathom, she tends to them almost daily, even though we have many, many gardeners to do such things.”

“We all have our favorite hobbies.”

“And what would be yours, Countess?”

Photography immediately came to mind, but she doubted she could explain that one. Sex was also high on her list, or it had been back in the day. Or forward in the day. She’d love to experiment here, but unfortunately not with Lance, but with the king. “I very much enjoy exercise. Sporting, as it were.”

The surprise on his face was so adorable, she wanted to kiss those raised eyebrows. “Sporting? Such as exercising the horses?”

“Well, yes, but much more than that. For example, I love jogging.”

“Jogging? What is this jogging?”

“Steady running for long distances.”

He laughed. “And you accomplish this in gowns?”

Now here was an opening she’d been waiting for. “Actually in Dumont the women who enjoy such exercise wear smaller versions of men’s leggings.”

“Pardon?”

“We believe women have as much right to exercise their passions as men. Can you possibly imagine women who love to run, doing so in gowns? Preposterous. So in Dumont, when women have the need or desire to stretch and strengthen their muscles, they wear what we call sporting gear.”

Arthur stroked his beard and she had the feeling he was trying to keep himself from laughing. “And what, pray tell, do you . . . they wear upon their upper halves?”

She figured a sports bra was probably going a little too far. “We wear things called T-shirts. A sort of oversized tunic, made of soft fabric for comfort.”

Arthur shook his head. “Apparently my men left much out in their reports from Dumont.”

“Setting aside the fact that you sent men to spy on me, let me ask you this: What kind of hobbies or pleasures do you afford your female servants?”

“Hobbies? Pleasures?”

“You allow Gwen to indulge in her pleasures.”