Up, the ceiling was painted a brilliant blue that the English sky only occasionally attained. Down, the floor was covered in carpet so thick and soft that walking on it took a bit more effort than usual. Around, there were the goldfinches—forty-seven of them, Gladys later counted—singing a greeting to the ladies as they stepped into the chamber. “My lady, this is fit for a queen!” Eleanor, though no stranger to luxury, was equally taken aback. “My uncle told me that there would be a pretty chamber for me, but I was hardly expecting this.” She looked at the bed, where several bolts of cloth in Eleanor's favorite greens and blues lay, begging to be made into robes, and on a table, where a romance, fresh from the hands of the illuminator, rested. “Well, if Isabella knew what quarters the king was giving you, she'd be home in a trice to boot you out,” Gladys said dryly. “When is she returning home, anyway?” Eleanor shook her head. “Young Edward did his homage several weeks ago, and the French king said he was satisfied.
