Chapter 22—A Fine Wine

Guinevere’s maid opened the door for the line of workmen carrying large buckets of heated water from the kitchens. They stomped over to fill a large metal bathtub with a gently curving back for reclining, arranged in front of the roaring fire. Removing the lids, they dumped the steaming water one bucket at a time into the tub. Twenty servants and double the number of buckets later, the tub was deep enough to allow for bathing. Murmuring her thanks, the maid closed the door behind the men then crossed the floor to the bedroom chamber. She knocked lightly on the door. “Milady, your bath is ready,” she called, then returned to the bathtub’s side. She poured a vial of rose oil into the water, set thick towels on a chair beside the bath, then folded her hands across her waist to wait.

The door opened, and Guinevere walked into the room wrapped in a silk robe. She let it fall to the floor then lowered herself into the tub with a grateful sigh. The maid picked up a soft bristled brush. “Would my lady like to have her back scrubbed?” asked the maid.

“No, Chelsea, I would like to soak and enjoy the warmth of the water. You may wash my hair.” Guinevere dipped below the surface of the water to wet her hair.

Chelsea poured a healthy measure of soft soap into the palm of her hand and waited for Guinevere to surface, then rubbed the shampoo into her hair, massaging her scalp. Guinevere sighed with pleasure. The firm fingers worked wonders, easing the headache that she hadn’t been aware existed until her maid began her ministrations. She felt the stress of the day’s activities melting away into the warm water, along with the stench of the injured. She had been surprised to find that Morgana was not in her chambers. True, she had left earlier than Guinevere, citing a need to get away from all the misery in the courtyard, but Guinevere could not leave. The people had needed their help. The duty of any noble was to offer aid when their subjects suffered so. Perhaps she felt a keen weight to serve the people of Camelot because of the upcoming ceremony, knowing that if Arthur held any sway over his father’s choice, it would be her name chosen from the crowd of women competing to become the betrothed of the crown prince and the next queen of Camelot.

Chelsea’s strong fingers worked out the knots in her shoulders, digging at the tension lining her slender shoulders. “Milady needs to relax. You’ll give yourself the wrinkles of an old crone, if you worry this way.” She picked up a pitcher and dipped it into a wide-lipped bucket of warm water at her side and proceeded to rinse Guinevere’s hair.

Nothing is carved in stone, thought Guinevere. As part of the festivities during the appointment of Arthur as crown prince, a parade of young women would be presented to the heir apparent, so that he might choose the fairest and the wisest of the kingdom to be his future queen. In reality, the fathers of noble daughters were horse trading in whispers, seeking advantage through an alliance of marriage between Arthur and their progeny. Titles and wealth and lands were tied to the proposals and fortunes could rise or fall on Arthur’s choice. While only one woman would become queen, Arthur’s reaction to each young woman would be cataloged against future opportunities to sway the prince. Although officially frowned on by the church, it was well known that mistresses were in abundant supply in royal households. In fact, the dalliances were encouraged, for the power and influence that they brought. Even a bastard son could rise to the throne, when there was only one heir to the Pendragon name, in the person of Arthur. No, Guinevere was well aware that even if she was named as Arthur’s official consort, there would likely be others jockeying to take her position in bed, at his side. She sighed.

“Now you are tensing again, my lady. You must relax.”

A knock sounded at the door. Chelsea stood, wiping her hands on a towel, and went to answer the door. Guinevere heard soft murmurs, and then the door opened and she returned with Morgana in tow.

“Lazing about in the tub, are you?” Morgana teased.

“A well-earned soak, I think. My feet were so sore that I was limping by the time I got back to my rooms.” She held up one pinked foot, wiggling her toes.

“Well, that is what you get for wearing the latest fashion. Honestly, pointed-toed shoes were never meant for anything but sitting.” Morgana walked over to the sitting room sideboard and picked up the flagon resting on a silver tray. “Wine?” she asked, turning her back to Guinevere.

“Yes, that sounds lovely. Chelsea, I am ready to get out.” Chelsea held open the wide towel as Guinevere stepped from the tub. She could hear the clinking of glasses as Morgana busied herself pouring wine. Quickly drying off, Guinevere slipped back into the blue silk dressing gown, tying the sash tight around her thin waist. She slipped her achy feet into warm woolen slippers and walked over to the chair by the roaring fire. Chelsea retrieved Guinevere’s hairbrush from her bedroom and returned just as Morgana reached her with a goblet of wine. Gratefully, Guinevere accepted the cup and sipped at the ruby contents. Morgana settled in the chair opposite her, while Chelsea ran the brush through her hair, one hundred drying strokes by the fire to assure no tangles.

“Were there many more injured to treat, after I left?” Morgana asked, sipping her wine.

“A few stragglers, but nothing we couldn’t handle. I think even Lancelot was tired by the end of the session. He refused to allow another knight to spell him off. That one has too much pride.”

“It is a common failing, with knights. Duty before personal considerations. Honestly, I think the hair grows thicker on their chests than on their heads.”

Guinevere laughed. “At least on the younger men.” She took another sip and sighed. It was her favourite wine, a rich burgundy from a little-known area of the world called Normandie. Very rare and hard to come by.

Morgana smiled around her glass, observing Guinevere’s enjoyment. “Are you nervous for tomorrow night? I mean, have you given any thought to what you might do, if you are not chosen by the king as Arthur’s consort?”

Guinevere took another sip. “If I am not chosen, then I will have to set about changing the king’s mind. We are not without influence. But I don’t think it will come to that. I think the king will agree to Arthur’s choice provided he makes a selection from among the nobles with strategic advantage, who have offered daughters for a match. The king will not care what daughter it is, as long as his political goals are accomplished, and binding our powerful family to the house of Pendragon will certainly accomplish that.”

“I could almost be jealous of your position, if I didn’t know that it came with the need to marry. Don’t get me wrong. I like Arthur. But…” she swirled the wine in her cup, “I am not sure that he will make a great husband.”

Guinevere sighed. “I know what you mean. He would not be my first choice in a man.” Her thoughts wandered to Lancelot. She had not been able to keep her eyes off the knight all day. It was in part why she agreed to stay as long as she did, to have a reason to stand beside him, to occasionally rub shoulders with him, to hear the deep timbre his of voice and his ready laugh. A blush rose on her skin.

“Is that blush for a man or too much wine?” Morgana teased.

“Obviously the wine, the bath, and the heat of this fire,” said Guinevere. She swallowed down the rest of the wine in one gulp.

“Well, it is a good thing I am here. You will need a friend to keep your head on straight.” Morgana rose to her feet. “More wine?”

“Yes, I think I have earned it today. Will you dine with me this evening, Morgana?”

“Of course, I will.”

“Chelsea, please fetch some dinner for myself and Morgana. We will take it here, in my rooms.” Chelsea curtsied and left by the servant’s door.

Morgana returned with the wine and handed the glass to Guinevere. “A toast is in order.” She raised her glass. “To friendship. And may men never spoil ours or come between us.”

“To friendship.” Guinevere raised her glass and they drank. “You know, I have never had a friend like you, Morgana. I am grateful that we met.” Guinevere’s grin bordered on silly. “What do we need men for?”

“Exactly what I always say!” said Morgana. “Women are best when we stick together. United in one purpose.”

“One purpose,” muttered Guinevere. She swayed in her chair.

Morgana reached over to steady Guinevere. She took the glass from her hand and set it on a short table. “Maybe you should ease up on the wine, at least until you get some food in your belly. You are more tired than I thought.”

“I feel funny,” said Guinevere. She yawned. “You are a good friend.” Her head tilted back, her jaw dropped open and she began to snore softly.

Morgana set her wine glass down.

It had been easier than she thought. Guinevere would sleep till morning with one dose of the potion in her. At that moment, the door opened and Chelsea backed into the room, carrying a large platter of food. Morgana’s eyes followed the maid as she walked over to the table, a look of surprise on her face, as she stared at her sleeping mistress.

“Guinevere has fallen asleep in her chair, poor thing,” said Morgana. “Put the tray down and help me get her into bed. She needs rest more than food.” Chelsea settled the tray on the table, then hurried over to help Morgana move Guinevere into the wide bed in her sleeping chamber.

Morgana tucked her under the covers. “Sweet dreams, Guinevere. We will chat again tomorrow.” Morgana left the bedroom, Chelsea pulling the door closed with a soft snick of the door. “Chelsea, I will take the tray to my room. You can order new food for her when she wakes.”

Chelsea bobbed a curtsy as Morgana picked up the tray, holding open the door for her as she left the quiet room.