Chapter Eleven
THE next morning Isabel was luxuriating in her bath filled with freshly picked lilacs and spices when there was a soft knock on the door.
"I have told you, Mary, you do not need to knock," she called.
"'Tis not Mary, Countess. 'Tis Guinevere."
Isabel splashed all over the place, grabbing for a towel and her robe. "One moment, your Highness!"
She set world speed records jumping out of the tub, drying herself and donning her robe. "Please come in," she said.
Gwen entered, looking so damn ethereal and sweet that Isabel felt like James on a bad day. If James could have a good day. Which she doubted.
The queen was wearing a turquoise gown. Very simple in its design, but managing to fit her like it was made for her body. Which, when Isabel thought about it, it was. Oh, to have that good a seamstress.
Then again, either the color wasn't good for Gwen, or Gwen's color wasn't right. Her smile was kind, but she appeared a little pasty, and her amazing eyes weren't glittering like they had even just the night before.
Uh-oh. Arthur had not disclosed all of the details of his talk with his wife, but Isabel had a sinking feeling her name had come up in the conversation. And this wasn't good.
She did the curtsy thing, which was again awkward. "To what do I owe this visit?" she asked, dread nearly dropping her. After all, she'd had heart-melting kisses with Gwen's husband just hours ago. Was the queen here to have Isabel executed as a . . . a . . . hussy? Was that a crime? Isabel's nerves were dancing, and it wasn't the mambo. It was the uh-oh.
Gwen floated into the room and sat in one of the two chairs. "I apologize for disrupting your bath, Countess."
"No problem. The water was getting cool on me," Isabel said, drying her hair with her towel and hoping like hell that she didn't have beard burns all over her face. "What's up?"
"Other than the beard scratches all over your face, Countess?"
She was definitely in the uh-oh dance.
And she was not a liar. So she was in a shit load of trouble.
Please, Goddess, help me through this.
I picked you, Isabel, since your truth was a plus, but right now I find it a bit of a minus. I care not one, Tom, Dick or Harry, but one of the three made your face scary.
Her face was scary? Really, scratchy she could live with. Scary felt a little too Halloweenish for her taste. But everything right now felt cartoonish.
"I will not lie. I shared kisses last eve. However, with whom I shared those kisses is my knowledge, and mine alone. Forgive me if I don't feel the need to share."
"And so it shall stay."
"Forgive my impertinence, Queen Guinevere, but your cheeks and chin also show signs of action."
Gwen's hands went to her face. "It would seem that we are both guilty of play, then."
"I won't tell on you, if you do not tell on me."
"Many thanks, Isabel."
"Right back atcha." Isabel laid down her towel. "Now to what do I owe this morning call?"
"So many things, Countess."
Everything in the world went through Isabel's mind. Gwen had learned that she'd kissed her husband? Maybe she'd learned that Isabel had kicked her stepson's ass? Isabel had had Mary pick flowers from Gwen's garden for her bath? "Please inform me."
"I have need of your counsel," the queen said.
Okay, that hadn't been on her list. And it sounded less painful than torture and death. "My counsel?"
"Yes. My husband informs me that you are distraught that the women here have no reprieve from their daily chores. That you believe they should have, as he said, some 'playtime.'"
Could have knocked Isabel over with a puff of air. "I most likely was out of line, Your Highness. I should not have said any such thing. I was just tossing out ideas as we spoke."
"I am quite entranced with the notion, truth be told."
So far, no torture and death in her future. At least she hoped not. She tried to connect with the Lady of the Lake, but the Lady wasn't talking. Apparently Isabel was on her own on this one.
Great.
"How may I help you, Queen Guinevere?"
"Please, I am Gwen," the queen said. "And allow me to call you Isabel. I do so hate formalities."
Isabel nodded. "As do I. But I'm afraid I might have spoken in haste. It isn't my place to tell you how to handle your staff."
Gwen, amazingly enough, appeared disappointed. "Are you saying you did not mean what you had suggested?"
Isabel dragged the other chair over to Gwen. "Oh, I meant it. Think about this, Queen Guinevere." She shook her head. "Gwen. The women who work at Camelot do only that. They work. The men work, for a certainty, but they also engage in play sport. The women should be allowed at least a small amount of that time themselves."
Gwen nodded, although her expression definitely showed confusion. "I do understand what you propose, but truth be told, I have ne'er heard a word of complaint."
"Oh, please, do you really believe the servants of Camelot are going to air their grievances to you?"
At that moment Mary burst into the room. "Ready to have your hair do - " She stopped short. "My apologies. I will return later."
"No, Mary," Isabel said. "I would very much love for you to take care of my hair right now."
"But the queen - "
"Will not mind," Isabel said. "Is that not right, Gwen?"
"Of course not. Come in and do your work, Mary."
"Yes, my queen."
"Her talent, not her work," Isabel said.
"My pardon?"
"The thing is, Gwen, that working on hair is not labor to Mary. She enjoys it. And she's very good at it."
"Thank you, m'lady," Mary said, her eyes still glued to the ground.
"I know, Gwen, that I am being so intrusive. However, the point being that you are not using your men and women in the most productive way. Mary, here, should be working with hair. She's brilliant. For example, she could spruce up many of the men's hair. Have you not noticed many are, shall we say, in need of de-shagging?"
"De ...?"
"They need haircuts."
"They do?"
"You have not noticed?"
"In truth, no. Another apparent fault of mine."
"It's not a fault. Just, apparently that you only have eyes for" - Isabel stopped herself just in time - "the things that matter to you. And I believe you have always felt that Arthur's men are his men, and not necessarily your concern."
"What do you recommend?"
"They need to clean up their act. For example, Arthur's first man, James, is quite a handsome brute. However, his hair is a mess."
Mary nearly choked.
Gwen took a hard look at Mary, nodding. "Oh, yes, you are that Mary. The one who turns James all amelt when he speaks of you."
Isabel was obviously missing something. "I apologize, Mary. I didn't expect for you to take on a horrid task with hair. I honestly just wanted to fight for your happiness."
Gwen tried to hide a smile but did a lousy job.
"What am I missing?"
"Oh, lady," Mary said, hands all aflutter. "My thanks. I do so enjoy working with hair. However, I will perform any tasks my king and queen ask of me. With pleasure, of course. May we, perhaps, brush your hair alone, Countess?"
Isabel looked back and forth between the queen and the servant. "Okay, what's the deal?"
Gwen spoke up first, her eyes still full of mirth. "Forgive me, but I believe this is the Mary who has captured James's heart. Am I correct, Mary?"
The poor girl looked like she was going to faint.
"Wait a minute," Isabel said, trying to give Mary a moment to catch her breath. "As in James, the sweetest brute alive who is Arthur's first man?"
"I knew he was smitten with a Mary," Gwen said. "I have heard Arthur jest about this. But I am so sorry to say I did not know which Mary."
"How many Marys do you have?" Isabel asked.
"I honestly do not know. We have so many Marys and Liliths and any number of names. I believe, however, that we have but one Prudence. I know not what her mother was thinking upon her birth."
Isabel looked back at Mary's flaming face. "Are you the Mary James has set his heart on?"
Mary shifted her feet and looked like she wanted to flee. "Yes, mum."
Gwen let out a small laugh. "James, in love."
"What is so funny?" Isabel asked. "James would be lucky to have Mary."
"No, no, 'tis not the match that is mirthful. 'Tis just the idea of James besotted that is something that has me - "
"Happy for them?" Isabel said.
"Yes, of course, happy for them."
Mary kind of curtsied again. "Thank you, my lady."
"Isabel."
"Yes, my lady. I am well aware of your name."
"Which you still refuse to utter."
"Yes, mum."
"Mary . . . and you do recognize that I use your first name?"
"Yes, mum."
"You're only thirteen."
"They are waiting until she becomes fourteen, Isabel," Gwen said. "'Tis the time we have decided upon."
"You have decided for them? As if they have no choice in the matter? Then again, at fourteen I was still working the monkey bars on the playground. I still thought boys had cooties."
Both of them looked at Isabel like she was batty. She even heard Viviane sigh in her head.
Okay, once again she was blowing it. Even if it felt kind of skanky, Isabel understood that in this time, age was a different matter. So she focused on another problem. "Then, Mary, why have you not done something to fix his hair?"
GWEN continued to giggle, even as she had sadness wrapped around her heart. 'Twas so apparent why Arthur had pressed her to visit the countess and listen to her views. He had become enamored with the woman.
In truth Gwen could not blame him. Isabel was a lovely woman and one who had opinions she openly voiced. Arthur much appreciated listening to the opinions of others. 'Twas one of his most appealing qualities. One she had always admired.
Gwen loved Arthur. She had loved him from the moment they had met. And yet it had taken Lancelot to make her realize that love and admiration were not equal to love and need.
Needing Lancelot, loving him, was a power like no other. Much as she loved and admired her husband, her need for Lancelot rode over everything, truly marring her good sense and tremendous responsibility. Not to mention those vows she had spoken. Those sacred vows.
"Gwen?"
Gwen shook her head and brought herself back to the moment. "Oh, I deeply apologize. I wandered deep in thought."
Isabel's eyes searched her face. "You seem to be troubled." She fingered the beautiful necklace around her neck, and Gwen could not seem to stop herself from saying, "I am, Countess. But it has naught to do with why I have sought your advice."
"Still, I am here to listen, should you want to voice what seems to be bothering you."
Gwen, eyes fixated on the necklace, said. "We . . . we have much to discuss about the workings of Camelot."
Mary attempted to bow out, but Isabel refused to allow her leave. "Please brush my hair, Mary. And then braid it as before. Plus, I would like your thoughts upon matters."
Mary glanced nervously at Gwen, apparently fearing punishment at the mere idea that her thoughts should be voiced or desired. In truth, Gwen herself was rather shocked at the concept. Servants being asked their opinions? 'Twas such a foreign concept. However, she could not, in truth, find a single reason to demand otherwise. She nodded her agreement to both the countess and Mary.