Goddess of Legend (6 page)

His laughter was again deep and deadly. “All beautiful women want Lancelot. I apologize for not being him.”

“No apology necessary. But who then, are you?”

He bowed again. “My name is Arthur.”

“No way.”

“Way.”

Isabel dismounted, most definitely not gracefully, then took Arthur’s hand and did her best to bend into a curtsy. Since she hadn’t curtsied since a tenth grade play—of all things,
Camelot
—she was a little rusty.

“King Arthur, my apologies for not recognizing you before now.”

She went to bring his hand to her lips, because she was pretty certain she was supposed to kiss his ring or something, but then she began to wobble, not being all that versed lately in bowing to someone without wanting to kick him in the gonads.

He grabbed her by her waist and pulled her up, his smile so full of enjoyment she wanted to kiss every part of him but his ring.

“Countess, the ride has obviously been a long one and your legs are trying. Betwixt us, that ring kissing thing has always annoyed me.”

His hands didn’t leave her waist, his eyes never stopped smiling into hers. She seriously waited for him to burst into song. “Richard Harris has nothing on you,” she blurted. It was a mistake. She knew it instantly as her necklace kicked her in the chest.

He stepped back, and his eyes clouded. “You are in league with Sir Richard?”

She definitely missed King Arthur’s hands on her waist. “Sir Richard? Of Fremont?”

“I assure you, no, I am not. I was remembering my own Richard, who was once one of my men. Richard of Fremont is nothing more than a swine.”

She had no clue where any of that information came from, but she was so relieved to see the suspicion leave his eyes. “King Arthur,” she said, bending low again, “I would be ever so grateful for your personal escort to Camelot.”

“And so you shall have it, Countess. And alas, look who have finally caught up with you.”

Isabel turned, and sure enough there were two men on bays, riding each side of a wagon with another man driving it, and two identical dapples lugging it, appearing totally disgruntled. As well they should have been, considering the pile of luggage they were . . . well . . . lugging.

Isabel ogled. The three men were almost identical to three of her friends back home in Oklahoma. It took everything she had in her not to run to them and hug them.

But wait.
Lady, did you kill my friends?
Isabel furiously asked, albeit silently.

And the response was instant, again, silently relayed to her.

Isabel took a moment, shaking her head.
That didn’t rhyme
.

She turned back to the King. “King Arthur, these are my men. Tom, Dick and Harry. But they’re not the usual Tom, Dick and Harry. They’re
my
Tom, Dick and Harry.” It never occurred to her how funny that sounded until this very moment. She whirled back to her friends before she burst out laughing. “Please, men, this is King Arthur. Give him the total respect due him.”

Tom and Dick jumped from their bays, and Harry put some kind of stop on the cart thing and hopped down, a smile wide on his face. They all bent to one knee and bowed their heads. “At your service, sir,” they said in unison.

“Please rise,” said Arthur. “There are no formalities here.”

“Seriously,” said Isabel to Tom. “I couldn’t get you to bow when I beat you at quarters in college.”

“M’lady, you’d unfairly plied me with Budwei—er, ale that night.”

That was true. Isabel had gotten him snockered on purpose. After all, the fraternity/sorority championship was on the line. “Excuses,” she said with an airy wave. “’Tis the last refuge of the weak.”

“College? Quarters?”

Isabel received another thump on her chest. At this point she’d have a bruise the size of a baseball. “My apologies, King Arthur. Games we play back in Dumont. I feel that happy friends are productive friends.”

The king gifted her with another winning smile. “We appear to have much in common. I too enjoy sporting with my men.”

Isabel frowned. “To leave the women doing the laundry, cooking, cleaning? What enjoyment do you provide your female help, sir? When do they get a freaking break?” Isabel braced herself for another thump from her necklace, but it never came. Apparently Viviane was on her side on this one. What do you know? A feminist goddess.

Arthur seemed at a loss for words. “I’d not thought of this. Perhaps the queen can answer this. The women seem not to be incontent, but, Countess, I will inquire and, should there be a problem, shall attempt to address this as soon as possible. Mayhap, with your suggestions? These quarter things, for example.”

“Whoa, let’s take this slowly, Arthur. Quarters is a skill. But should you allow, I might possibly come up with something.”

“I will be open to any suggestions, Countess. Now, shall we proceed to Camelot?”

“Let’s roll,” Isabel said. She turned back to her crew and winked. Tom, Dick and Harry all stepped forward to assist her back onto Samara. The king waved them all away. “This will be my pleasure, Countess. On our travel, may we discuss the college thing?”

When Arthur’s men had materialized with his own steed, a dapple gray, he’d given them orders to stand forward and behind her own men. And then she and this king had spent the rest of the ride side by side, joking.

Isabel liked him.
Way
too much.

CHAPTER FIVE

OKAY, Camelot was magnificent. Isabel would have given anything to have her camera equipment with her. It was so unfair not to be able to capture the beauty of it all.

There was an actual moat that they all traversed over a bridge, a wooden bridge. They then entered a keep that was so buzzing with activity that Isabel was almost afraid. So many men working as if they were in football practice, so many women running back and forth chasing after children.

The castle itself was breathtaking. Isabel had assumed it would be made of stone, but strangely, it seemed mostly to be made of wood. And yet so many chimneys had smoke chugging from them. And she had the feeling there wasn’t a single smoke alarm in the place.

What really shocked Isabel, though, was the way all of the people greeted their king. They bowed, of course, as he entered the keep, but they smiled, too. These people really liked their leader. Isabel could relate. Unfortunately.

The great hall was also abuzz with activity. But it seemed to come to a screeching halt when the king escorted her in and loudly announced her arrival. Even the animals running around—there had to be at least thirty dogs of all varieties—froze. Then the bowing and curtsying began.

“Please tell them to rise, sir,” she whispered to Arthur. “They’re acting like I’m freaking royalty.”

Arthur’s eyes widened for a second. “Countess, you
are
royalty.”

Oops. “Perhaps, but I’m not so big on the bowing and scraping thing. It makes me uncomfortable. I much more prefer an equality of sorts.”

He smiled again, which was really mean because his smile was lethal. “We have much in common, m’lady.”

“Isabel.”

“Isabel it is, then. And I am Arthur. Please, I beg you to leave off the king part.”

“Deal!” she said.

“Rise, all! The lady prefers you not ...”

“Grovel?” Isabel provided.

“. . . feel the need to lower yourselves upon her entrance,” King Arthur finished.

Isabel felt the need to bow a little herself. Then she stood and said, “Okay, now we’re even. No more of that, all right? It’s a pain for all of us. By the way, hi! Good to be here,” she said, waving in what she hoped wasn’t a Queen Elizabeth-type way.

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.

 

 

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.

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.

“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.