Everyone, even the dogs, stared at her like she was a little, or maybe a lot, addled. But then they smiled. And several waved back.
There were what she thought were things called rushes on the floor, and the hall smelled a little smarmy. Part sweat, part pee, part burning wood, part indescribable. Yet as she and Arthur walked farther into the great room, a kind of nice smell kept wafting up.
“Thyme?” she asked.
The king looked at her. “My guess, Isabel, is betwixt the noon hour and evening meal.”
“I was talking about . . . never mind. May I retire to my quarters to prepare for supper?”
“Most assuredly, Countess. Your trunks will be delivered as soon as one of your Toms, Dicks or Harrys manage to get them up there.” The humor was back in his eyes, and Isabel was once again bamboozled.
She pulled herself together to ask one more thing. “Sir, my men. They mean a great deal to me. Their accommodations?”
“They’ll be given the best the great hall of Camelot has to offer, Isabel.”
Once again, she melted. The way her name came off his tongue really screwed with her hormones. “Does this mean they’ll stay downstairs, then?”
“Do you want them up closer to you, Isabel?”
“Is that possible? I don’t want to upset anyone, but I truly want them near me.”
“Very unusual, but it shall be done.” The king took a long look at her, then bowed. “I only wish to make you happy.”
Happy would be kissing him senseless.
Her necklace again thumped her. Stick to the plan, Izzy.
Then stop putting gorgeous, sexy kings in my face, Viviane.
ISABEL’S room was the epitome of medieval luxury accommodations. The walls were made of rustic wood, which smelled of cedar, but probably weren’t. The bedsheets were rose and forest green. She had her own special room, if you could call it that, with a piss pot in just about every corner. And in front of the fireplace was a huge tub.
There was a cheerful fire crackling in the huge fireplace, which bathed the room in a rosy glow. All in all, considering the time period, this was presidential-suite material.
Her trunks had been delivered to her room, and Viviane had thought of everything. Except floss. And a toothbrush. And Listerine.
Not happy with the lack of dental care here, Viviane.
Patience has never been a virtue bestowed upon you, has it, dear?
Not when it comes to my teeth.
Help will arrive shortly. And wear the very pale red gown tonight that I believe in your time you call pink. Lancelot is apparently partial to that shade.
Pink. Probably Isabel’s least favorite color. Not only did it wash out any color from her face, it reminded her of the time when she’d been forced to play the cotton candy in her fourth grade play, A Day at the Fair. She’d really wanted to be the corn dog.
Isabel jumped when there was a knock at her door. “Yes?”
“M’lady, ’tis Mary. I shall be your chambermaid during your visit.”
“Well, by all means, Mary, come on in.”
“Me arms be full, m’lady.”
Isabel turned from her trunks and went to the door. “Full of—”
She stopped as she stared down at the loaded tray in the young girl’s hands. There were several twigs that appeared shredded on one side. A small bowl with what looked like salt. A pitcher of water and another small bowl of greens which smelled like mint.
This is what I’m supposed to use on my teeth?
You will find it suffices for teeth devices.
“What, no wine?” Isabel asked, motioning Mary in.
The girl tried to curtsy, which made everything on the tray wobble precariously. “On its way, m’la—”
“My name is Isabel, Mary. If I may call you Mary, please call me Isabel.”
“Oh, no, m’lady! I could not possibly.”
“Oh, yes, Mary, you could. In fact I insist.”
“Please, Countess, I cannot.”
Isabel smiled down at the girl, who couldn’t be older than thirteen. Mary had long, bright red hair that would have made Ronald McDonald jealous. She had freckles racing all over her nose and cheeks. But Isabel couldn’t figure out the color of her eyes because Mary was intent on staring at the floor.
“Fine, then. I won’t ever ask you to do something that makes you uncomfortable. Countess will work for me if it works for you.”
“Yes, mum. Countess, mum.”
“Then we’re all set. Please, bring on the goodies.”
Mary stumbled through the room into the dressing area, set everything down just so, then turned with her empty tray. “Shall I order water for a bath, m’lady?”
“That sounds heavenly.”
Finally Mary raised her eyes to meet Isabel’s. They were the exact sapphire color of the necklace of tears.
Isabel grinned. It was an omen. “I think you and I are going to get along just fine, Mary.”
“I believe so as well, m’la—Countess.”
“I would love a bath. But before that, could you please help me find the pink gown among this mess?”
“Pink?”
“Pale red?” Isabel tried.
Mary gnawed at her bottom lip, obviously still not understanding.
“You know the color that your cheeks turn, when you’re flattered by a boy? Or embarrassed by something you think you’ve done?”
“Oh! Oh, yes. Although, mum, in my instances, that would be a deep red.” She glanced down and then up again, a twinkle in her eyes. “I must admit it does not go well with my hair.”
“I doubt that, Mary. My guess is that your blush turns many young men’s heads.”
Mary blushed.
And boy, was she right. Almost fire-engine red on those cheeks.
“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?”
Is this your idea of pink, Viviane?
So a shade here and there. Stop quibbling.
“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.