Reaching Camille’s side and gasping for breath, Blanche said, “If I’m not mistaken, ’tis Celeste and Liaze, come to visit the prince. Oh, Lady, we can’t have them see you like this, all grimed with dirt.” The handmaid cast an accusing eye at the gardener, but he merely shrugged.
In that moment, topping the hill came another rider, only this one had a pack of Wolves padding alongside. Blanche drew in a sharp breath. “Oh, goodness, it’s all three come.”
“Aye,” agreed Andre, “and there look to be strangers in their train.”
Blanche tugged on Camille’s arm. “My lady, now listen to me! We must go this instant, else they’ll be here before you are presentable.”
As Camille was drawn into the mansion by Blanche, footmen raced across the sward toward the distant gates. And inside the manor, servants and maids, all directed by Lanval, rushed to and fro, for there were rooms to be aired and beds to be made and banquets to be prepared, for indeed ’twas true: a splendid rade had come.
13
“No, no, my lady,” said Lanval. “You must stand here on the symbol of Summerwood Manor.”
Freshly scrubbed and most hurriedly dressed in a pale jade-green gown with pale cream petticoats under, and in green shoes with pale cream silk stockings, and with pale jade-green ribbons wound in her golden hair, and a necklace of square-cut, pale yellow jargoons about her throat and a matching ring on her left hand, Camille had come rushing down the stairs and into the entry hall, where Lanval awaited her on the oak-tree inlay. She would have run right past him, but he stepped into her path.
Camille looked beyond him and said, “Oh, but I cannot stay here, for I wish to see them come. Please, Lanval, I have not before ever seen a rade.”
Lanval sighed, though a hint of a smile crossed his lips. “Lady Camille, you need not my permission, for you are mistress here. Yet ere they reach the manor, I strongly advise that you return unto the oak and stand in the very center, for they, too, must learn you are the mistress here.”
“Oh, merci, Lanval.” Camille rushed from the grand entry hall and through the corridor and to the great front door. Once again lines of servants and maids and footmen stood aflank the open portal, awaiting the arrival of the visitors.
Camille stopped just within the shadow of the doorway, her eyes seeking the rade.
Lanval stepped to her side.
Endless moments passed, or so it seemed to Camille, yet of a sudden, emerging from the lane of oaks, two riders appeared, two ladies, followed by a small retinue and then a gap, where none came.
“Where are the others?” whispered Camille.
“Many stopped just inside the gate,” said Lanval, “there to pitch camp and tend the horses, which will be stabled outside.”
“Outside?”
“Outside the walls.”
“Because…?”
“The Bear, my lady. The horses will not abide.”
“Oh. I remember. Renaud said such. But what about these steeds that come?”
“They will be stabled without as well.”
In that moment, grey shapes loped out from the shadows of the oaks, and another rider came, two or three more in his wake.
“Borel?” whispered Camille.
“Aye.”
“Are the horses not afraid of the Wolves?”
“Nay, my lady. Methinks they simply believe them to be large dogs.”
No more came from the lane, and Camille sighed in minor disappointment, for she would have liked to see the entire rade up close and in cavalcade.
As onward came the lead riders, “My lady…” said Lanval, canting his head toward the entry hall.
“All right, all right.” As Lanval stepped outward, Camille hurried back to the malachite-and-granite inlay and stood in the very center, and she pulled at the top of her gown, wondering at its low cut and the bustier beneath, which thrust her breasts up and closer together, accentuating the cleavage. But then she stood straight and waited, for, out through the hallway and beyond the corridor of servants, she could see the riders arrive, their horses skittish and sidle-stepping and footmen rushing to aid.
Moments later-“My Lady Camille,” called Lanval, now standing just inside the hall, “the Lady Celeste, Princess of the Springwood.”
As Celeste stepped down onto the marble floor, Camille saw before her a slender, willowy, seemingly fragile lady with light yellow hair and dressed in pale green riding garb, the hue nearly the match of Camille’s own jade gown. Celeste stepped to the granite root of the oak inlay and she and Camille curtseyed deeply to one another. Then Celeste straightened, her green eyes peering into Camille’s eyes of blue. “Oh, Camille, you are so beautiful,” she softly said, then stepped forward and gently embraced the girl, Camille returning in kind, and Celeste carried about her the faint fragrance of spring mint, which mingled with and somehow enhanced the subtle scent of roses clinging to Camille.
As Celeste released Camille and stepped aside, Lanval called, “My Lady Camille, the Lady Liaze, Princess of the Autumnwood.”
Smiling, auburn-haired Liaze, dressed in russet garb, stepped onto the floor of the hall. Taller and appearing more robust than Celeste, Liaze strode to the root of the oak, her amber eyes sparkling. Again Camille curtseyed deeply, Liaze likewise, and then they did embrace, the air about Liaze faintly adrift with the fragrance of apples, and Liaze whispered, “My Lady Camille, I am so glad to meet you at last.” Camille remained silent, for she had not been told nor did she know what to say.
As Liaze stepped aflank of Camille, Lanval called, “My Lady Camille, Lord Borel, Prince of the Winterwood.”
Dressed in grey, Borel stepped in, Wolves padding at his side. He stopped at the root of the oak and bowed low, his silver-white hair cascading. Camille curtseyed in turn. And about him was the aroma of.. what? — snow? frost? He stepped forward, and took her hand and kissed it, his ice-blue eyes again appraised her face and form, just as he had done in the Winterwood, and Camille felt her cheeks flush as his gaze lingered on her decolletage. “My lady, you are even more stunning than I thought when first we met. And once more I say, ’tis no wonder Alain was smitten.”
To cover her embarrassment, “My lord,” she said, unable to think of ought else.
“My Lady Camille,” announced Lanval, “the Wizard Caldor, the Seer Malgan, the Witch Hradian.”
Camille’s eyes widened in alarm at these titles, and she looked up to see a tall, bald man in rune-marked blue robes step forward, a supercilious sneer on his face. He was flanked on one side by a reed-thin, sallow-faced man with lank, straw-colored hair, his hands tucked across and within the sleeves of his red-satin, buttoned gown, a man who whispered to unseen companions as he approached. Flanking the other side came a sly-eyed, leering crone accoutered in black, with black-lace frills and trim and danglers.
As they approached, Celeste murmured, “Fear not, Camille. They are here to help.”
When the introductions were complete, feeling quite awkward and unlearned, Camille said, “You must be weary after your journey.” She turned to find Lanval at hand. “Lanval, would you see the guests to their quarters?”
“Yes, my lady.”
But ere they departed, Liaze said, “What say in a candlemark or so, we all get together for a game of croquet?”
Camille frowned in puzzlement. “Croquet? Shepherd’s crook? Or do you mean the small cake?”
Liaze laughed. “No, no. ’Tis a game of long-handled mallets and wooden balls and wickets and the like.”
