Honora grimaced to think of just how disastrous her gown had looked. The color had leached out from the seawater, and the hem was ripped in several places. Neither Connor nor Ewan had said a word about it. Not that she could have done anything, but she hated the thought of meeting strangers while she was dressed like a serf.
She'd never felt so awkward in all her life. Here, the tribe spoke the Irish language. She hadn't understood a word of their speech, and already she could see how different their customs were. It brought back her old feelings of helplessness at Ceredys, though she tried to push them away.
The queen picked up a vivid saffron-colored gown, and shook her head. "No, this color would make you look too sallow. Rose, perhaps." She held up another gown, then shook her head. "The color isn't dark enough for you."
Honora said nothing, feeling more and more uncomfortable. The queen was a stunningly beautiful woman, with fair hair and deep brown eyes. As she picked up each gown, Honora felt more and more uneasy.
She owned a number of gowns, but she'd never really cared much about her appearance. Ranulf had wed her without even meeting her first, and he'd paid little attention to what she wore.
"I am sorry," she said to the queen. "I don't mean to take clothes that belong to you. I could purchase a gown, perhaps—"
With what? She hadn't even brought a sword with her. She felt banished from her family, unable to ask them for help.
"You are my guest," Isabel reminded her. "And I can sympathize with how you feel, for I went through it myself." A wince crossed the queen's face, but Honora couldn't picture her in such a situation.
"I imagine you have a good reason for not having any belongings," Isabel continued.
The questioning tone made Honora feel compelled to explain about John and the army. "I don't know if I'll be able to return," she finished. "But I can't leave the people of Ceredys at John's mercy. They need help."
She knew they would suffer from his wrath in her absence. Shame curled over her, the memory of her earlier failure, like a festering wound that would not heal.
The queen opened a trunk, gathering up an armful of gowns. "Did you ask Ewan? He may have a strategy in mind."
"He thinks I should recruit men from among his tribe." Honora stared down at the water. "But I don't have enough coins to pay them. For that matter, I don't even speak their language."
"Is Ewan planning to fight on your behalf?" Isabel lifted up a gown, pretending to be interested in the color, but Honora didn't miss the concern in the queen's voice.
"It isn't his battle," Honora said softly. She didn't want to bring Ewan into the fight, not when he could be killed.
She'd been so afraid when she hadn't seen him swimming toward Connor's boat. So many things could have gone wrong. She might have lost him.
Her hands fisted beneath the surface of the bath water, her heart wrenching at the thought. She needed to know that he was safe among his tribe, that nothing would happen to him.
And she needed to face John on her own terms. He had defeated her once, but he'd not do it again.
Honora sank back against the wooden tub, holding her knees tightly. The maidservant helped Honora rinse her hair and wrapped her in a linen drying cloth. Isabel led her beside the fire and as the maidservant combed her hair, she directed the servants to make preparations for the evening feast.
"We'll need extra trestle tables brought in. And tonight we'll have Ewan's favorite, roasted lamb." Isabel continued giving more orders for ale and describing what she wanted for the festivities. Honora's head tumbled with all the details. All of this, for the two of them?
"It isn't necessary to go to this trouble," Honora began. She didn't want to imagine being the center of everyone's curiosity. Her apprehensions tripled at the thought.
Isabel ignored her and dismissed the women. "Ewan is like my own brother. And he deserves no less than our best welcome." The words were spoken with a slight air of chastisement, and Honora hid her discomfort.
The queen held up a deep blue gown, the color of cornflowers. "Now this will set off your hair." Tilting her head, she asked, "Why is it so short? Were you ill?"
"No. That isn't the reason why I cut it." Honora didn't say anything further, for she didn't want to answer questions. "May I borrow a veil?"
Isabel looked at her sharply, her gaze narrowed. She stared at Honora, as though she were trying to understand her. But thanks be, she did not ask a second time. Instead, she pulled out a linen veil from inside a trunk of clothing.
Honora breathed a sigh of relief. The veil would hide her shorn hair, avoiding further explanations.
Isabel helped her to don a strange garment, a white fitted underdress called aléineand the blue overdress with voluminous draping sleeves. The silk fabric was very fine, and Honora vowed not to soil it in any way.
A soft knock sounded on the door a moment later, a female voice speaking the Irish language. Honora didn't know what was said, but the queen opened the door.
A dark-haired woman, clad simply in a cream léine and a gray overdress, walked inside. Her warm smile was genuine and welcoming.
"This is Connor's wife Aileen," Isabel said. "She is the most skilled healer I've ever met. She wanted to meet you, but she cannot speak your language. I am happy to translate for you."
