Authors: P. C. Cast
Goddess of Legend (19 page)
“Are you going to banish her for attacking your son?”
Arthur stopped for a moment, then kept taking the steps. “Yes. The same day I charge you with attacking her horse.”
“So you would choose her horse over me?”
“No, Mordred, I choose good over evil.”
“Do you call my actions evil?”
“I am sad to say that, yes, I do. You attacked an innocent animal. To what purpose, Mordred? To what gain?”
Arthur needed to shift Mordred in his arms. “Please, son, help me understand your purpose.”
“The countess threatened us, Father.”
“How? She is nothing but kind.”
“You are carrying me to the healer, my father.”
“You provoked, harming her animal.”
Mordred said nothing for moments. “I feel she is a threat to our dynasty.”
“’Twas the closest Arthur had ever come to wanting to toss someone down a staircase. And his son, no less. But he held on and kept moving. “Why the countess? She comes in peace. She comes to make treaties that will benefit us all. Why, Mordred, is she such a threat?”
“Because you are clouded by your feelings for her.”
Arthur stopped again, this time considering stomping his own son. “You know this how?”
“By the way you reacted when I made a pass at her.”
Arthur laughed. “Son, if that is your belief of a pass to a woman, I have much to teach you.”
“She means more to you than Gwen.”
Again, Arthur was stopped, but only in his head. “I have known her but awhile. I know not what I feel about anything. ’Tis very dangerous to judge afore an assessment has been made. It is the fatal flaw of any losing battle.”
Again, silence as they descended, and Arthur felt his arms might well give up the fight all too soon. He strained to keep his son secure.
“Is all she said true?” Mordred asked, breaking the silence.
“Who? Countess Isabel?”
“Yes, is what she said the truth?”
“It is.”
“Why did you never just explain this afore?”
“Son, I have told you this many times over the years. Yet you refused to believe me. How is it that hearing it from the countess finally got through to you?”
“Perhaps because she was so fierce in the telling, whilst you always just spoke quietly.”
“Ahh, I must keep this in mind. To get through to you I must begin shouting.”
Steps from below had Arthur placing Mordred back on his feet, so that his son would feel no shame. ’Twas the young girl, Mary, skipping up the stairway. She stopped short as she encountered them. “My pardons, my king and ...”
“My son, Mordred.”
She curtsied. “Sir.”
“Are you off to Isabel’s room, Mary?”
“Yes, my king. With herbs and flowers for her bath. Is that . . . acceptable to you, sirs?”
“Absolutely,” Arthur said. “And should you have a chance, please pick flowers just for her pleasure.”
“Yes, my king. May I . . . may I pass?”
“Of course.”
Mary smiled and skipped right on by. As soon as she reached the top of the steps and turned the corner, he again heaved his son up and into his arms. “You are most assuredly a man, Mordred. You are heavy beyond measure.”
They traveled several more steps before Mordred mumbled, “She was protecting you. I believe she cares for you very deeply.”
Arthur did not have to ask from whence that thought appeared in his son’s head.
“As do I for her, Mordred. She is a fascinating lady.”
“When did you and the queen lose that love? When the countess arrived?”
Arthur nearly tripped. “As I have said, Isabel and I have not been lovers. We have just met.”
“I believe this. But that was not my question.”
“Mordred, you are my son. Whether you believe it or not—and at this moment you should believe as my arms may never survive this journey—there are pieces of life that are private to every individual, whether he be king or serf. This is a part of my life that I must ask you to allow me to keep private.”
They were almost there, thank the gods.
“I say only this, Father, I would not place blame. The countess speaks her mind.”
“You touch her horse again, Mordred, and she will speak with a knife. Or worse. And I do not believe you want to come face-to-face with worse.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
MARY all but cartwheeled into Isabel’s room not five minutes after she’d sent Arthur and Mordred on their way.
The only thing stopping her from acrobatics was the tray in her hands. More delicious-smelling herbs, flowers and those damn twiggy things she was forced to use to clean her teeth.
“Hello, Mary,” she said, smiling at the young girl’s exuberance.
“Good afternoon, mum!”
Mary looked around for a place to set the tray, as the table was still filled with remnants of other trays. “How about on the bed, Mary?” Isabel suggested.
Mary turned, but stopped. “I was certain I had made up your bed finely this morn.”
Whoops! She and Arthur hadn’t gotten very far, but far enough to dishevel the coverlet. “It was my fault, Mary. I was . . . restless.”
“No worries, mum, I will tidy up.”
Isabel sat her butt down beside the tray, then patted the bed on the other side of the tray. “If you can manage to sit long enough, please tell me what has you so excited.”
“Gilda says she can easily fix the gown to fit me! Is that not wonderful?”
“Oh, Mary, it truly is! But I had no doubt.” She grabbed Mary’s hand. “You will make such a beautiful bride.”
“Thanks to you, Countess.”
“Hey, my gown had nothing to do with that. It is you. You are a lovely young lady, and you would shine, even in a burlap sack.”
Of course, Mary looked confused. But before Isabel could attempt to explain, Mary—bless her heart—shrugged off what she failed to understand, apparently trusting that Isabel had given her a compliment.
“Leastways, mum, I have a missive as well. From the queen, no less!”
“From the queen, no less! Impressive. And what does the queen have to say to me?”
“She would like you to meet her in the loft where the seamstresses work.”
“To what purpose?”
Mary giggled. “She is attempting to teach them how to make man breeches for ladies. Yet she has no stitching skills, lady. None at all.”
“There is no difference other than size, Mary, but I will happily meet her, for this might be a very good day for us all. Let’s go.”
Isabel took Mary’s hand and then led her through the door. “Show me the way.”
Mary began leading her through a labyrinth of stairways and hallways. “May I ask, m’lady, what kind of play we will be engaging in wearing these garments?”
“Whatever floats our boat.”
Mary giggled again as they ran up more steps. “Betimes I do not understand your meaning, Countess, but I do not question because you are so much fun.”
Isabel stopped her. “You, Mary, are the little sister I wish I had.”
“Oh, mum, that means more to me than I can possibly say.”
“Good. Will you now finally call me Isabel?”
“No, mum.”
Isabel grinned. “Yes, indeed. The stubborn little sister I always wanted.” She glanced upward. “Beat you up the stairs.”
“When it snows in Hades,” Mary said as they raced.
MARY and Isabel were both still a little out of breath by the time they arrived in the huge seamstress room. It was truly amazing! There were at least fifty women, stitching at a pace that would make a Singer proud.
Some appeared to be working on new tunics for the men, many appeared to be sewing up pants, others working on plain muslin gowns, a few on basic aprons.
Mary grabbed Isabel’s hand and dragged her to a woman who was the spitting image of Betty White. This must be Gilda, the woman who was working on Mary’s wedding gown.
Isabel grinned and held out her hand. “You must be Gilda.”
“That I am, mum,” she said, staring at Isabel’s hand as if it were a boa. She set everything aside and attempted to stand.
“No, no! Please sit,” Isabel said. “I didn’t mean to disrupt.”
“She speaks a fair bit different from the rest of us, Mary.”
Mary huffed out. “She be from a different land and ’tis how they speak in hers. But she is also a countess and deserves your respect.”
Gilda grunted but went right back to stitching.
Mary stomped her foot. “She gifted me this dress.”
“Let’s hit the road, Jack,” Isabel said, trying to walk away as fast as possible.
Mary stood her ground, grabbing Isabel’s arm and holding on tight. “Would James want you to act thusly to the woman who gifted his son’s future wife with something so beautiful?”
The woman stopped stitching and looked up slowly. “’Twas a very nice thing you did, m’lady. I thank you on behalf of James and Mary.”
“And?” Mary prodded, still with the death grip on Isabel’s arm.
“And my future daughter would be ever so proud to have you stand aside her at her vow ceremony. Even as I have told her the foolishness of the request.”
“I would be proud to stand beside Mary.”
Gilda looked up, her huge brown eyes full of surprise. “In truth?”
“Of course! Mary is my friend.” She turned to Mary, who was nearly jumping up and down. “Don’t you have closer friends you would prefer, Mary?”
Mary stopped bouncing on her toes. “I do, m’lady. Or I did. But my choice is you. If it does not upset you.”
“If I agree, will you agree to call me Isabel?”
“No, mum.”
Isabel laughed. “I didn’t think so. Yes, I happily agree. It would be an honor beyond any requests I have ever been asked to perform.”
Before they turned from Gilda’s workstation, Isabel glanced down to see a slight smile on the woman’s face.
They walked away, and Isabel whispered, “You have your hands full.”
Mary grinned at her. “Or perhaps, it is she who will need to keep a watch.”
“My money’s on you, babe,” Isabel said.
“Here is the queen, madam, the purpose for your visit.”
“Your Highness,” Isabel said, then whispered to Mary, “I wager I am able curtsy lower than you.”
“Ha!”
They both dropped into low, then lower, then even lower curtsies. Mary beat her again, and Isabel fell over on her, where they laid laughing. “By the end of our bets, Mary, you will own everything I have.”
“I do so want that necklace, Countess.”
“I bet you do,” Isabel said. “However, it’s the one thing I’m unable to give up. Try again.”
“Rise now,” Gwen demanded.
Isabel sat up but didn’t get to her feet. “In a nicer tone, Gwen, I’ll consider whether or not to agree to such a rather rude demand. Until then, we are having a very good time down here.”
Although Mary obviously had stopped having a good time. She attempted to stand, but Isabel held her down.
Gwen looked shocked. “’Twas not a demand, Countess, ’twas but a request.”
“Sounded more like a demand, Your Highness. I’m so not into that haughty holier-than-thou thing.”
The entire room went completely silent, as if sound had been sucked from it.
“I ne’er meant it as such,” Gwen said.
“Then in a nicer tone,” Isabel suggested, staring up at the woman who had first won Arthur’s heart. And then shattered it. Isabel liked Gwen and disliked her all at once, and wasn’t certain which of the pieces of this amazing puzzle fell into which category.
“I need not be nice,” Gwen said, her eyes suddenly squinty.
“Not part of your job description? What, you only need to be gracious to those of your station and bitch queeny to all else?”
Isabel ignored the gasps.
She got to her feet, pulling Mary up with her. But she kept Mary behind her. “Until you learn to have fun with the people who work so hard to make your pampered life comfortable, you will never connect in an important way. These people work their asses off to make your life glorious. Treat them like shit, and you receive the love and respect of no one. You haven’t earned it.”
“Off with her head!” was the next thing Isabel expected out of Gwen’s mouth. But the queen seemed to be speechless.
So far Isabel’s head seemed to be secure.
“You are such a kind lady, Gwen. What the hell? What is wrong? I thought you asked me here to show me something really nice. What is it?”
Gwen rubbed her temples. “Yes, we are here to see . . . What are we here to see, Jenny?”
A young girl, probably a year or two older than Mary, stepped forward. “We are here to see the women’s leggings, as you had requested.”
“I suggested, I did not request. But I find it wonderful that you have set it in motion, Gwen.”
“You have attempted to take over Camelot, Countess,” Gwen said.
“Excuse me? I had nothing to do with this. We had a good chat and you thought it was an idea to pursue.”
“Liar! The marriage of James and Mary was my idea. This,” she said, waving around vaguely, “this was all my idea! You stole it. You stole it all from me.”
“Okey-dokey, then. It’s all your idea. No problem. No patents happening here.”
Isabel glanced around and every single face was frozen in shock. Hers probably was as well.
“Do you know if she’s had a little too much wine this morning, Mary?” She watched Mary and the girl called Jenny exchange worried glances, and then Jenny shook her head no and shrugged.
“Heretic!” Gwen yelled.
“I don’t have my handy dictionary with me, Mary, but isn’t that a word that means witch or something?”
“I am not sure of the word witch,” Mary whispered, “but I believe it means you are of the underworld. Of the dark forces.”
“So I’m guessing it isn’t a compliment?”
Mary was apparently too afraid to laugh.
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