Arthur had embraced Christianity, too. She would have to learn it. If only Merlin were here to place it all inside her head like he had the knot magic.
“So,” Guinevere said, “I would like to bathe myself. When I am finished, I will call you and you can dress me—and care for my hair? You are much better with it than I am!”
This seemed to placate Brangien, or at least make her less afraid for her position. She nodded. “I will retrieve your undergarments. If you need any help getting into them, please call for me.” She hurried to the bedroom, then brought the linen undergarments in and set them gently on the table beside the other supplies.
Guinevere smiled until Brangien left again. Then she dropped the smile with a shudder as she dropped her nightclothes. She did not look at the bath. She could feel the water there, steaming, promising magic she did not ask for and would not explore.
She stepped out of the ring of her nightclothes. Her feet were bare against the stone floor and she curled her toes, missing the soft give of soil. Luckily, Brangien had left a candle on the table. Guinevere breathed it into life. It was a dangerous trick, but the wick contained the fire before it could escape.
Fire magic was Merlin’s specialty. Not hers. She needed the limits of knot magic, the security of the loops and ties. But she had to get clean, and she could not bring herself to sit in water.
She put her finger to the flame, whispering. It jumped from wick to flesh, stinging just shy of burning. She spun in a circle. The flame followed the path of the circle to form a shimmering ring, encompassing her. It took all her concentration to hold it, to forbid it from the chaos that was its nature. Unlike water, fire had no master. No lady or queen who could rule it.
It rushed over her hot and hungry and dry, devouring anything unclean. When she could no longer stand it, she pushed away the air so the fire had nothing to feed on. It reluctantly faded and died.
It left her skin itching and her whole body tired. But she was clean and the water left undisturbed. As difficult as it was, fire magic was relatively safe. It devoured whatever it touched, leaving no evidence of itself or its user. And when it was extinguished, it was gone. It could not carry news of her magic to anyone who knew where to look.
The first time she had tried a cleansing, Merlin had to extinguish her. She had been seconds away from being devoured. She frowned, as stung by the memory as by the fire itself. Merlin had found it hilarious. She wished he could see how well she had handled it now. But at least he had given her the tools she needed to avoid water. It was uncharacteristically thoughtful of him.
She pulled on her underclothes and surveyed the room. The table of bath supplies was undisturbed. Chagrined, she broke off a piece of the petal-pressed soap and tossed it into the water behind her. She took the brush and backed closer to the bath, carefully dipping it in without looking at what she was doing. Then she hastily replaced it on the table. The other supplies she rearranged messily, assuming a princess would never worry about neatness with so many people to be neat on her behalf.
Her hair was dry, but hair was washed infrequently. She would figure out how to trick Brangien when the time came.
Now all she had to do was wait a reasonable bath period. She sat on the floor so the surface of the water was above her eye level and she could not see it and the lies it told. When the steam finally stopped drifting, she called for Brangien.
Brangien did not notice anything amiss about the unused bath. She undid Guinevere’s hair, redoing the braids and carefully removing the jewels Guinevere had not remembered to take out the night before. Brangien placed them into a gilded box, which was then closed and locked.
“I have the key, unless my lady would like to hold it herself.” There was a challenge in Brangien’s voice, as though daring Guinevere not to trust her. The bath rejection had done damage. Guinevere needed to repair it. She could not have someone in such constant contact suspect or dislike her.
“I would lose it, I am certain! Thank you for taking care of it. What is expected of me today?” Guinevere asked.
Brangien shook her head, deftly twisting and braiding Guinevere’s long, thick hair. “It is assumed the queen will be tired after her wedding night, so none of the other ladies will call on you.”
Guinevere did not comment on the basis of that assumption. At least it gave her some peace. “And Arthur?”
“I expect he will be busy all day.”
“Good!” Guinevere turned, smiling in unfeigned excitement. “Will you take me into the city? Show me Camelot as you live it?”
Brangien looked taken aback. “What do you mean?”
“This is my city now. I want to walk the streets with you. See how it works, how the people live. Please take me on an adventure?”
Brangien’s face softened with friendliness. She finished pinning a twisted braid to frame Guinevere’s face. “I forget sometimes what a wonder it is. When Sir Tristan and I arrived, it felt like the journey across the lake had transported me into a dreamland. It was the first time in months I could feel something like hope again.” She leaned back, admiring her work before nodding to herself. “But do you think it is appropriate for us to explore today?”
“I have not been given any instructions on what I am to do. And if no one has told me no, they cannot be angry with us!”
Brangien laughed. “If we are leaving the castle, we will need different clothing than I picked.”
Guinevere followed Brangien into the bedroom and waited patiently as Brangien cinched and tied her into her clothing. Today’s dress was a cheerful yellow. The hood draped over her shoulders was deep blue. After checking to make certain that Guinevere’s sleeves went all the way to her fingers, Brangien knelt and helped Guinevere get into her shoes.
“Would you like to wear a veil?” Brangien asked.
“Must I?”
“It is not unusual for ladies, but it is not so common that it will cause gossip if you do not.”
“I would much rather they get used to my face than expect a veil.”
Brangien nodded and stood. Her maid’s clothes were nicer than any Guinevere had ever owned before now, but the cloth was not so finely woven, and she had no fur trimming her hood. The dyes were duller as well. Brangien’s clothes said that she was important, but not royal.
There was an entire language to this city that Guinevere had to learn. She was grateful she had Brangien to navigate it for her, and even more grateful for Merlin’s wisdom in choosing a princess from so far away for her to impersonate, so that any errors could be excused by her foreignness.
Brangien hurried her through the hallway. Guinevere suspected her maid was half-worried they would be caught and not permitted to leave. They both sighed with relief as they exited the castle through one of the side doors; then they turned to each other and laughed.