Camilla offered a slight curtsey to the aged Baron and Cydric sketched a stiff bow that probably wasn’t sufficiently deep. Imperial customs were far more egalitarian than the Brettonian’s the lowliest peasant could theoretically stand on his rights against the Emperor himself though in practice such a thing would never occur. 

“We thank you for your hospitality my lord,” Camilla said using Reikspiel even though her Brettonian was more than up to the challenge. The internal politics of the Brettonian nobility didn’t interest her and she was slightly irritated that Beaumont had used her presence as an excuse to forward his own agenda. Still the knight had been brave and in all likelihood his intervention at the clifftop had saved her life.

“I would also like to thank your nephew for his gallantry tonight,” she said, turning a sunny smile upon Beaumont who all but preened. The old Baron grunted in reluctant acknowledgement, too much of a product of chivalry to completely ignore the service.

“Yes well, have quarters prepared for my nephew and his men as well.”

Liveried servants came forward as though to lead the two foreigners from the room but before they could do so a side door flew open and a woman burst into the room. She was young, perhaps no more than twenty, and heart stoppingly beautiful. Blonde hair hung in curls bound up with a silver circlet. She wore a dress of green satin with slashes of white silk that ran diagonally across the voluminous skirt. Though she was slim enough in all truth she must have been corseted to the point she could hardly breathe so narrow did her waist appear and so high and firm were her breasts. The plunging neckline of the dress revealed a generous flash of pale white bosom.

“Ah, Melisende,” the Baron said, his face hardening as he spoke, “how kind of you to join us.”

“My apologies husband,” the woman replied with a venom in her voice which could not be missed, “I was not informed we had guests.” Beaumont cast a look at the woman which was far from filial and she could almost hear the Baron’s teeth grinding. Camilla realised that the woman's choice of garb, the same green and white which was Beaumont’s livery, was a calculated provocation. Though whether it was designed to annoy her husband or inflame the young knight she couldn’t be sure.

The woman’s eyes flicked from Beaumont to Camilla and Cydric who still stood hand in hand. It wasn’t a particularly friendly look, though neither was it overly hostile. Melisende’s blue eyes flicked from Camilla to Beaumont and narrowed slightly. The Baron, clearly accustomed to giving as good as he got, cleared his throat.

“I had not though to wake you so early my dear May I present Cydric Sieur D’Estabrook and Contessa Camilla De La Trantio, whom my nephew so gallantly rescued from peril,” the Baron all but simpered. Melisende’s eyes narrowed further as she looked Camilla up and down and gave Cydric a more speculative glance.

“My Lord you cannot let her stand there in such rags,” Melisende gasped in outrage which was no less dramatic for clearly being manufactured. Camilla was dressed in her customary hunting shirt and pants of soft buckskin, to make matters worse she was still wearing the cloak Beaumont had given her. The garments were blood stained and crusted with the salt of dried sea water, a far cry from the courtly garb Melisende herself wore. She clapped her hands in a premportory fashion and two handmaidens, peasant girls but pretty enough not to offend the sensibilities of their noble masters appeared at her side as if by sorcery.

“Please, take the Contessa to the bath house and find her something appropriate to wear!” The two girls curtsied and all dragged Camilla from the hall before she could speak another word.

It was mind morning by the time Camilla finally escaped the clutches of the servants. A liveried man at arms lead her to a large room somewhere in the castle, though she wouldn’t have wanted to try to find it on her own. True to their mistresses command the handmaidens had bathed her in a large wooden tub of scalding water, scrubbing her body with soap of scented lye and washing her hair. Once dried by a fire they had dressed her in a gown of blood red velvet which Camilla didn’t feel matched her darker complexion particularly well. The scalloped sleeve and flowing train of the thing mad the garment almost ridiculously impractical. Only threats of physical violence had compelled them to abandon the idea of putting her in a corset. They had brushed her hair until it shone a lustrous black, buffing away the damage of weeks of sea travel by sheer effort. Finally they had fitted her for velvet slippers and fastened a band of gold around her neck before declaring her marginally presentable.

Her own clothes had been spirited away with a vague promise that they would be delivered to her room once they had been cleaned. Camilla was exhausted and ravenous and not best pleased to be made the object of a child’s game of dress up but she bore it all with grim determination. The whole process had been worth it for the servants look of horror when she had belted her sword and pistols on over the flaring waist of the courtly dress. Of Melisende herself there had been no sign, for which Camilla was eternally grateful. 

The room she was led to was surprisingly spacious for being located in a fortress. Narrow arched windows let in some sunlight, but the chamber would have seemed cold if not for a fire burning in the hearth on the far wall. The floor, cobbled stone, was covered with furs to give it an illusion of comfort. Several smaller chambers opened off the main room set off by ornate arches of carven stone. The Brettonians did everything in their power to convince themselves that they weren't living in what was first and foremost a fortress. Of Cydic there was no sign.

“Is there anything else we can do fo you m’lady?” One of the handmaidens asked.

“Perhaps take you ...umm.. accessories to the armory?” Camilla wheeled on the pair, managed a faint smile and then slammed the heavy wooden door in their faces, unable to take any more of their obsequious demands. By the window there was a small table on which rested a platter of fruit an a pitcher of what looked to be wine. Wearily she walked over to it, flopped onto a chair in what was probably a very unlady like fashion and started stuffing grapes into her mouth before taking a criminally large swig of what was a very good wine. By Ranald the sooner they got clear of this mad house the better.