Goddess of Legend gs-7

by P. C. Cast

  “Women do not engage in battle, Isabel,” Gwen said.

  Isabel plopped her hands on her hips. “What, you wait for your men to die in battle, and then allow the enemy to do with you what they will? In my land, women fight. We might do it differently than men, but we do not stand by and await the outcome. Do you want to help thwart the enemy, Gwen, or do you want to cower in your chambers and hope for the best?”

  “We fight,” Jenny said, with a ferocity that was endearing.

  “Good. Then go gather the women and tell them to dress and arm themselves appropriately. We will meet in the round-table hall and plan our strategy in, say, a half an hour or so.”

  She looked at Gwen. “Buck up, Queen Guinevere. Camelot is your land as well. Do you fight for this castle, or not?”

  Gwen nodded. “Let us go do as she asks, Jenny.”

  Jenny left at a run. Gwen, not so quickly.

  “The queen is a . . . a . . . What is the proper word, Isabel?” Mary asked, as her hands worked feverishly braiding hair.

  “I think the word you’re looking for is a wimp.”

  “Oh, that is a perfect word. Yes, a wimp.”

  “But we must give her a break. This is all unfamiliar and scary.”

  Mary looked up from her task. “It is not familiar to you, either, I am guessing. And yet you acted.”

  Isabel shrugged as she pulled off her nightgown and started to dress. “I cannot stand by and do nothing.”

  “The king wanted you to leave. Why did you not?”

  “How did you know that?”

  “Oh, I have excellent hearing. People may whisper two or more rooms away and I will hear every word. ’Tis a gift and a curse, in some cases.”

  “You are a wonder, Mary. What is not a wonder to me is why James loves you so much. And you, him.”

  “And why the king loves you,” Mary said.

  “You . . . overheard something?”

  “Oh, please, Isabel. James and I were aware from the moment you arrived. It did not take overhearing to figure that much out. It was apparent by the way your . . . bodies interacted.”

  Isabel laughed as she pulled on her breeches. “In my land, Mary, we call that body language. I didn’t know we were that apparent.”

  “’Twas apparent to us. But we said not a word to anyone, Isabel. This I swear.”

  “If there is anything I believe, Mary, it is that. I am a good judge of character, and I knew the moment we met that you are such a good person.”

  “Then I, too, am a good judge of character,” Mary said. “Wear the deep green dress, Isabel. It is the least heavy of the lot and much more easy for you to move around in. And you will more easily blend in with the foliage. Twill not stand out as some of your brighter clothing might. We do not want a target on your back.”

  Isabel laughed. “You are a treasure beyond measure, Mary.”

  “I am so glad you think so.” Mary looked up from her task. “I love you, Countess Isabel.”

  “As I do you, Mary,” Isabel said, her throat choked with emotion. “This should be no way for any woman to spend her first full day of marriage to her true love.”

  “If he is to battle this day, it is the only way to spend it. I believe I should like more nights with the big goof.”

  Isabel laughed again as she managed to lace up her dress on her own. And, of course, Mary had been right. It was the least complicated dress she had, and the easiest to maneuver in. “I cannot blame that logic one bit. I hope your night was all that you dreamed.”

  “Oh, and more. Much more. That was one big pickle, Isabel.”

  Isabel almost collapsed. “Mary, you must stop making me laugh so hard.” Then she stopped. “I hope he didn’t hurt you.”

  “Oh, no, he was ever so gentle. The king gave him tips on ways to make certain he would not.”

  “James told you this?”

  Mary just shook her head and then tapped her ear. “It appears that James was more nervous than I, last evening. The king attempted to calm him down.”

  Oh, Arthur. Could she love a man more? “Your vow exchange was beautiful. As were you. I don’t blame James for being nervous.”

  “Well, ’twould seem that the advice King Arthur gave him worked, and worked well. I admit I did not ken much of what he said, but I much appreciate whate’er it was.”

  She stood up. “Done. I have thirty and two braids. Is that enough?”

  “More than. Where did you get all of the hair, Mary?”

  “I can be quite convincing when I have the need to be. Now what are we to do with them?”

  “I have need of more of your hair skills, Mary. And I very much hope your convincing skills work, because I believe we are going to encounter protests like you have never encountered before.”

  Mary gathered up the braided hair. “Bring it on, mistress.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  ARTHUR could not believe his eyes. He stared at all of the women gathered around his round table, Isabel standing as she scratched out things upon a piece of parchment, then pointing at one and then another, and handing out what sounded very close to assignments for a battle plan.

  “What goes on here?” he asked.

  Isabel glanced up while most of the women, all those but Gwen, scrambled to their feet.

  “Oh, sit down already,” he said. “Isabel, what is this?”

  “This is the round table,” she said calmly, straightening. “We are planning strategy. Is that not what this table was created for?”

  “For, for . . .” Oh, gods, ’twas a waste of time to argue with the woman. “Planning what strategy? First you have Mary force braids upon men’s heads, and now you involve women in this fight? What will you not do, Isabel?”

  “Allow any to win in their attempt to overtake Camelot. I might be mistaken, but I believe that’s the goal for this day.”

  “And you feel it all right to involve the women?”

  Isabel looked around the packed table. “Any of you who feel unwilling to join in, raise your hands. If you are at this table against your will, speak up now. You will not be punished, and you are free to go right now.”

  Not a single hand lifted, not even Gwen’s.

  “I will not allow—”

  “You have no choice. Guinevere—last I heard, the Queen of Camelot—has decreed that we may help in this endeavor.”

  His outrage almost overruled his admiration. “This is war. This is a man’s battle.”

  “This is a battle to preserve Camelot,” Isabel said. “It is up to all of us to join in.”

  “You are of Dumont. You are not of Camelot. You have not authority to—”

  One by one he watched as every woman at the table stood up again, this time including Gwen. And by the belligerent countenances, he was certainly aware it was not out of respect for their king. Truth be told, the allegiances had most assuredly switched to the woman from Dumont.

  “I give her the authority, Arthur,” Gwen said, even as she shook a little. “We are joining in, in our own ways. Every one of us at this table has a man who is heading into harm’s way. We are doing our part, whether you agree or not. Isabel has plans. We are not going to do a single thing to interfere, only to, mayhap, intervene where we are able. Now go back to your plans, and leave us to ours.”

  And then, to his utter amazement, the women all began holding up hands, slapping them against one another and saying what he believed to be, “High five.”

  Too many things to take in. The most stunning was that this was the very first time Gwen had stood up and countermanded his wishes. She had, while he was not paying attention, grown a backbone. Then again, when she declared that all of the women had a dog in this fight, or a man, as it were, he knew for a certainty she was thinking of Lance, not of him. And he did not care a fig. He cared that the man Isabel was defiantly fighting for was he.

  Second, that the women servants were truly and utterly defying him.

  And worst of all, that Isabel no
t only joined in this fight to help save his lands, she had managed to form an army of females to follow her into battle for them.

  He knew when he was out-womaned. “Fine,” he said. “You do as you see fit. But, Isabel, if your plans involve bringing any woman into the battlefield—”

  “They do not,” she said. “I vow we are doing this in a way that women do best. We are smarter and sneakier than men. Not a woman will be harmed in this fight. I swear. And if we are successful, no men, either. Is that not the goal?”

  “That is the goal. But, Isabel? Countess Isabel? A word?” he said, crooking his finger at her.

  “I’m guessing I am going to hear more than one. And most of them will be of the swearing kind.”

  The women around the table laughed.

  “You are right. But words we will have. Now, please.”

  “Shall I accompany you, Countess?” Mary said.

  Oh, great, now she had people ready to attack him should he make any threatening moves or words against her. His own people. He had definitely lost control of this entire castle.

  “No need, Mary,” Isabel said. “Not even Excalibur at his side worries me. However, should my head roll back in here, no longer attached to the rest of my body, you may correctly assume I sadly overestimated my trust in your king.”

  “VERY funny,” Arthur said as he dragged Isabel into his study.

  “Have Mordred and his men returned yet?”

  “They have.”

  “The mission successful?”

  “He feels so. Although he could not wait to rip those braids from his head. And they were not happy about the dresses.”

  “It was only for added protection. Should any enemy sneak up upon them—”

  “They would first believe they were dealing with helpless women, yes, I get it. You realize, of course, the irony of that ruse.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You are using men’s beliefs of helpless females against them.”

  “Hey, if they’re dumb enough, use whatever you have.”

  “We have ten men imprisoned. Those who Mordred and his men caught with that ruse.”

  “Cool! Now let’s hope that many others are enticed to stop long enough to taste the pastries and mead.”

  “They are men galloping into battle.”

  “Well, even men galloping into battle get hungry and thirsty.”

  “Mordred is quite proud, Isabel. He, I am thinking, feels he has accomplished an amazing feat this day.”

  “He has. Good for him. Now, I have another thought.”

  He stared at her. “Why does this worry me?”

  “Because you are so accustomed to traditional blood and guts warring that you don’t get the fine art of trickery.”

  “And what trickery have you in mind, now?”

  “Well, not trickery, perhaps, but a form of defense.”

  “And that would be?”

  “Light a fire. A big one.”

  “I will not burn down Camelot, Isabel.”

  “No, no, I don’t mean here. I mean far enough in the forest to cut off all trails leading to Camelot. Those not dumb enough to stop to take advantage of our lovely food and drink gifts will be stopped by a wall of fire. You gave me the idea when you warned Lance not to start a fire he could not contain. If you start a fire, a contained fire, blocking their way to the castle, you cut them off before they can even invade.”

  Arthur looked down at this woman, this utterly amazing woman. “And your plans?”

  “Will not work should we leak them. Trust me, Arthur, no women will be harmed during the making of this battle.”

  “What?”

  “Never mind, was just a joke.”

  “You are so strange, Isabel.”

  “But you love that about me.”

  “I am utterly perplexed by that about you.”

  “At least I’m not boring.”

  “That, Countess Isabel, is the truest of truths.”

  Again he kissed her, as fiercely as he had just hours ago. Then he took her hand, leading her back out of his study.

  “Where are you going?” she asked.

  “To start a fire. And you are going back to continue planning. That room, that table, was first meant for something completely different. But now I see so clearly that it has value so deeper than that. And, by the by, you love me, in case you needed to be reminded.”

  “I do, and I didn’t.”

  She began walking back to the round table room when she heard him call, “I love you!”

  And then, “Oh, for crying out loud, Frederick. I meant her, not you.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  THE battle, thank the gods, never happened.

  Not a single sword had to be used, not a single arrow fired. In the day following the attack that failed, Arthur’s men combed the trails and discovered the bodies of many men, one of them Richard of Freemont, who turned out to be a fat pig who would never turn down the thought of pastry or mead.

  Isabel, Mary, Jenny and Gwen were once again gathered in Isabel’s chambers, as Mary attempted to fix the hair of those she’d had to butcher.

  Jenny and Gwen had supported the cause, as had Mary, who chopped her own hair to help make the braids.

  “You did not hear this from me, Countess,” Jenny said, “but the speaking around the castle is that the women were disappointed they did not get the opportunity to thwack a single bad man.”

  “We can only be happy about that. But I will thwack you if you continue to refuse to call me Isabel.”

  “Give it up, Jenny,” Mary said as she worked on Gwen’s hair. “You will not win. Isabel will wear you down.”

  “And I want you all to please call me Gwen.”

  Jenny froze. “What?” she said, looking around at them. “I have already asked this of you two. I am now asking this of Jenny. What is the problem with this?”

  “You are the queen,” Jenny whispered.

  “Who is sitting upon the floor, having fun with women she has come to see as friends. I would like you to view me as the same.”

  “Mary,” Isabel said. “Get that razor out of the way.”

  Mary sat back, the razor in the hand behind her.

  Isabel leaned forward and pulled Gwen into a hug. “You are a friend, Gwen. And a very good one.”

  She sat back and pointed. “Now you and you. Admit you consider Gwen a great friend. After all, we have shared pickle stories. Only friends do that.”

  “Oh, James would just die if he knew,” Mary said, and then hugged her queen. “I very much consider you a friend, my queen.”

  “Mary,” Isabel growled.

  “Gwen,” Mary answered, although it was an obviously trying moment for her. “Will take some time to get used to that.”

  “It will just be among the pickle sisters,” Isabel said.

  They all fell over laughing. It took minutes for them to sit back up, although they were all holding their tummies.

  “Your turn, Jenny,” Isabel said. She pointed at her chest. “Isabel.” She pointed at Gwen. “Gwen. Now go ahead, spit it out. Or the three of us might be forced to describe the two walnuts you can expect to find under that pickle.”

  Jenny stared, but then joined in the laughter. “I wish an explanation first, afore I concede.”

  “Oh, good gods, no, Jenny,” Gwen said. “These are treasures you must find for yourself.”

  “Oh, a treasure hunt? I love a treasure hunt. I am very good at those.”

  “We must get this girl married,” Isabel said. “So she may go hunting.”

  “Ashton wants her,” Mary said, “but she has refused. At least three times, right, Jenny?”

  Jenny blushed. “Yes, that is true.”

  “Why?” Isabel asked. “Do you not care for him? I met him just yester morning . . . in a way . . . and I must say he is a very handsome young warrior.”

  “It is just that I feared ...”

  “What?”

  Jenny
looked at Gwen. “I feared losing my position as the queen’s servant.”

  “What?” Gwen and Isabel said at the same time. “Why would you believe this, Jenny?” Gwen finished.

  “You told me so, Your Highness.”

  “When did I e’er say such a thing?”

  “You told me that you dreaded the day that I wed, because ’twould mean you would need to find a new maid servant.”

  Isabel nearly choked. “You told her that?”

  “No! Well, it is possible. But if I uttered such a thing, what I was thinking was that once she married, she would become a wife and would no longer want or need to be of service to me. Jenny, I never presumed you would believe I meant marriage would be the end of my need for you. If anything, I was mourning the thought of ever losing you as servant and . . . friend.”

  “Oh, Your Highness. I love being your servant and . . . and friend. I always have.”

  “It’s going to take time to bring her around to the first-name-basis thing, Mary,” Isabel whispered, as Jenny and Gwen held on to one another.

  “As I said, she is a tough nut to crack,” Mary whispered.

  “A walnut?”

  Isabel and Mary again fell on their sides.

  “Countess,” Mary said, in between giggles. “Should this keep up, my stomach will ache forever.”

  “Consider it good exercise for your abs. Then again, so is James.”

  * * *

  “DO you really, truly want to interrupt that?” James asked Arthur, poking his finger at Isabel’s door.

  “If I heard correct, James, you have just been complimented on your skills beneath the furs.”

  James looked away, attempting, Arthur guessed, to hide a proud smile.

  Arthur began stomping his boots against the floor. “I am telling you, James,” he came near to shouting, “the women are in there. Possibly performing that toe-painting thing again.”

  James nodded. “But should we interrupt, sir?” he shouted so loud the people in the outskirts of all Briton heard him.

  Arthur shook his head, leaning against the wall. When James chimed in, he did it with gusto. “We have need of their help,” he said loudly. “How else will we be able to pull off tonight’s celebration?”