Dreams of Lilacs

by Lynn Kurland

  He had stood in the middle of her chamber and tried to decide if he felt worse for her that she had shouldered such a burden herself or worse for the lad who had written the missive, for when Miles found him, his death would not be a quick and easy one.

  He had gone back downstairs, kissed his mother, embraced his father, then poached his father’s fastest horse and immediately headed south, under absolutely no illusions about what his sister intended to do.

  And he was at least four days behind her.

  It took only a brief word at present with the innkeeper to learn where his youngest brother was lingering. He took the stairs three at a time and strode down the passageway. He threw open the last door available, quickly determined that just Montgomery was inside, then shut the door behind him.

  “Where is she?” he said without preamble.

  Montgomery didn’t look well. That, Miles supposed, could have been the result of several things. Having lost their sister was one. The way his brother was holding a damp cloth to the top of his head might have been another. Miles strode across the room and pulled Montgomery’s hand away. The cut was fairly large as was the bump underneath it, but at least the cut was healing. Montgomery would be sporting that bump for another fortnight at least.

  “What befell you?”

  “What befell me?” Montgomery echoed incredulously. “She hit me over the head, that’s what befell me!”

  Miles shot him a look of disbelief.

  “Well, she did,” Montgomery said stubbornly. “I was leaning over to rescue some ridiculous bit of feminine frippery, then the next thing I know she’s clunked me over the head with a heavy stone.” He paused. “Or a brick.” He considered a bit more. “Or perhaps she simply heaved the trunk up and dropped it on me.”

  Miles looked about the chamber for a likely tool and saw the shutters. He walked over to them, pulled them open, then ran a finger along their lower edges. There was blood there, though it was thoroughly dried. He sighed, then leaned out the window to see what was below. Nothing but garden, but a garden that could easily be used as a path to the docks.

  “I’ve been looking for her,” Montgomery said, sounding for the first time very young and very frightened. “I vow I have.”

  Miles looked at his brother and smiled. “I don’t doubt it, Montgomery. Izzy’s headstrong.”

  “Father will kill me—”

  “Nay, he won’t,” Miles said, praying that would be the case. He should likely say a prayer for himself that he would escape a similar fate. “Did she say anything to you about what she intended to do?”

  “She said she was meeting Arthur of Harwych and sailing to France on business of her own,” Montgomery said, sitting down on the end of the bed and putting his face in his hands. “Of course I forbade her.”

  “And of course she ignored you. Have you seen Arthur?”

  Montgomery shook his head gingerly. “I’m guessing he took the ship with her.” He looked at Miles. “Tell me she isn’t going to wed with him there.”

  “Not unless she’s had a terrible blow to the head and lost all her wits,” Miles said. “My guess is she intends that he guard her back whilst she’s about her quest.”

  Montgomery’s mouth fell open. “Quest?”

  Miles decided that if Isabelle hadn’t been willing to tell their youngest brother what she was about in truth, he had no right to pass on those details himself. Well, that and he had no reason to disbelieve the author of the missive who had threatened to kill the entire de Piaget family if Isabelle spoke of her errand.

  “But why France?” Montgomery said in disbelief.

  Miles shrugged. “Who knows what goes on in the mind of a wench?”

  Montgomery looked at him earnestly. “I tried to frighten her off the idea, Miles, truly I did. I spoke of the perils of the food, the feistiness of the peasants, the endless forests full of ghosts and bogles.” He shivered. “Terrible things, all.”

  “Could you dredge up nothing more menacing?”

  Montgomery threw up his hands, then put his hand to his head when apparently the motion was more than he should have indulged in. “I resorted to something I thought would convince her to put her hair back atop her head and that was tales of the lord of Monsaert—”

  “Gervase de Seger?” Miles asked with a laugh. “That was the best you could do?”

  “Miles, he’s a demon,” Montgomery said with feeling. “You know what happened to him in the fall.”

  Miles would have attempted to enlighten his brother about the particulars, but Montgomery had warmed to his topic and was obviously beyond hearing him.

  “He was attacked by something foul and turned into something fouler. His people haven’t seen him since that time unless he gathers darkness around him and steps outside his gates to terrify his peasants.”

  “Rubbish—”

  “It isn’t,” Montgomery insisted. “How do you know he won’t find Isabelle traipsing about the countryside, abduct her, and toss her into his dungeon where he might torment her at his leisure?”

  “Because, unlike you, I don’t believe in faeries,” Miles said, “which leaves me with powers of reasoning you don’t have.” He pushed away from the wall he’d been leaning against, then walked to the door. “I’ll do some investigating, then return. Don’t go anywhere.”

  Montgomery only groaned in answer, which Miles supposed was answer enough.

  He left the inn and made his way to the docks, hoping without any confidence at all that he might find his sister loitering there. She wasn’t, of course, nor was that useless youngest son of Henry of Harwych. Miles milled about, trying to see who was preparing to go and who was arriving. He found several lads, finally, who had obviously just arrived and were off for a meal and something decent to drink. He stopped one and put on his most pleasant smile.

  “Good journey?”

  The lad shivered. “Fortunately for us.”

  “Where did you sail from?”

  “Calais, and we’re bloody lucky to be here,” the lad said. “A handful of days earlier and we would have gone down like Captain Allard’s crew.”

  Miles felt something slither down his spine. “How many days ago?”

  The lad considered, then shrugged. “Two, my lord, perhaps three. Begging your pardon?”

  Miles let him go catch up to his mates, then looked out over the sea. It looked fairly calm, but he had grown to manhood on its edge and he knew very well how quickly things could change.

  It wasn’t possible that Isabelle could have been on that doomed ship, was it?

  He considered. He had always had a bond with Isabelle, a strange sort of something that brought her to mind at times when he wouldn’t have suspected it. He’d had the occasional curse thrown at him because he’d been her twin brother which apparently made him some sort of demon. He wasn’t sure why that had seemingly never applied to his sister, but he had to admit that at the time he’d happily accepted any sort of unsavoury reputation he’d been able to acquire. Along the way, he had quite often had flashes of what he supposed might have been termed intuition. If she’d been in danger. If she’d been about to do something foolish. If she’d needed him. He stood there, unmoving, for so long that his back began to plague him.

  He felt nothing.

  He didn’t stop to consider what to do. He found a ship, booked himself passage, then returned to the inn to tell Montgomery what to do and which horse to see to.

  He would sail for France.

  He could only hope he would find his sister there, alive.

  Chapter 2

  CHATEAU MONSAERT,

  FRANCE

  Gervase de Seger rode like a demon from Hell.

  Or he would have, had he been equal to it. It galled him to the very depths of his soul that all he could manage was a very anemic shuffle on a nag that was better suited to carrying a statuesque and unskilled ladies’ maid. But simply getting atop his ancient, faithful steed had taken the better part of a quarter hou
r, so he supposed he should simply be grateful for what he was able to accomplish and leave the blistering speed to those better suited to it.

  By the saints, he felt old.

  He wasn’t, of course, but that didn’t change the fact that he would rather have been in bed than out in the bloody driving rain. It had been raining for the better part of three days, something that likely should have given him pause as he’d made a decision to leave his hall. In fact, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen a storm so fierce. At least he’d been at home in front of a hot fire for most of it. He pitied any lad with the unfortunate necessity of traveling by either land or sea. Why he’d chosen to join the ranks of those poor fools, he surely didn’t know.

  He sighed. The truth was, he’d left his comfortable roost because if he’d had to spend another day haunting the inside of a hall so bleak it bothered even him, he would have done damage to someone. To spare any innocents that fate, he had instead reached for his cloak and decided to seek out a bit of air. He’d driven himself out the front door, down the steps, and across the courtyard to the stables where he’d frowned so fiercely that not a word had been spoken by anyone as the oldest horse in his stables had been saddled for him. At least most of the lads had had the good sense to turn away while he’d struggled to get himself up into the saddle. The one lad who’d been fool enough to watch had earned the full force of Gervase’s glare and gone scampering off to no doubt tell more tales about darkness and terror and things that the lord of the hall was apparently responsible for.

  He supposed he should have been happy for the addition of unsavoury items to his reputation. His father, after all, had been known as the Griffin of Seger, though perhaps he hadn’t merited a title so fierce. Gervase knew that the cheekier lads in his own employ—as well as a few of the more vocal lads down in the village—had taken to referring to him as the Crow of Monsaert, damn them all to Hell. If he could have repaid them for the slight, he would have. Unfortunately, the best he could do was keep to his castle, let the gloom ooze out the windows and front door to infect the lands surrounding his estate, and hope that it would be enough to keep enemies at bay until he was more himself. If he ever again became what he had once been—

  He dragged his hand through his hair and lifted his face to the sky, pushing aside thoughts that didn’t serve him. The rain was freezing, but he relished it. He needed clarity and ’twas a certainty he wouldn’t find it at home. The chaos there was unrelenting and worsening by the day. His brothers were in desperate need of things he hadn’t a clue how to give them, his coffers were emptying at an alarming rate, and he wasn’t healing as quickly as he should have been.

  That made it a bit difficult to protect himself against whomever was trying to kill him.

  At least he’d managed to get himself to the stables today. He’d shuffled out his front gates a se’nnight ago in an ill-advised attempt to be about his business and the effort had left him practically crawling back to bed for the rest of the day. Today not only had he managed to get himself to the stables, he’d managed to get atop a horse and ride out the front gates. A feat worthy of song, to be sure.

  He would have laughed at the absurdity of it all, but he couldn’t. He was a score and eight, but he might as well have been four score and eight for all the strength he had. He should have been at the height of his vigor and prowess. He’d been there a year ago, undefeated in over a decade of jousting, heir to a vast estate, betrothed to the most beautiful woman in all of France. He had occasionally looked at the state of his life and been a little envious of how marvelous it all was. Of course, his father had been dead, which had grieved him, and his mother—or his stepmother, rather—had been without any redeeming qualities at all, which had vexed him, but those were simply things given to him to remind him that life was never perfect. No matter how the rest of his life had spoken to the contrary.

  It had all changed in the blink of an eye—

  His horse stumbled and caught itself heavily on one leg, almost sending him pitching over the poor beast’s head. He managed to stay in the saddle only because he’d spent every day there since he’d been able to sit up on his own.

  Well, save the past four months, but that was time better left rotting in the past where it belonged.

  “Help!”

  He had to shield his eyes against not only the driving rain but the wind that seemed determined to blind him. He saw finally what would have been not even a ripple in his life before but was now a situation he could honestly say he wanted no part of.

  A young lad was being tossed about by a trio of men who it seemed hadn’t been content to merely rob him. One held one of his boots aloft, one held a bag of what Gervase could only assume was coins, and a third satisfied himself with giving the lad a little lesson in the harsh realities of the world. Just the sight of that was enough to leave Gervase wishing he’d stayed at home.

  But he was first and foremost a knight, and he could not fail to render aid when called upon.

  His steed seemed to feel the same obligation, for he picked himself up into a respectable trot that almost bounced Gervase from the saddle. Perhaps together they made a more terrifying sight than Gervase had supposed, what with him swathed in a black cloak and his horse an enormous black warhorse who had struck fear into enemies a score of years earlier. The ruffians fell back in terror, then ran off with a speed Gervase was forced to admire. They did however, in true ruffian fashion, taunt their victim with the loss of his purse, his dagger, and apparently his only remaining boot as they went. Gervase didn’t bother to give chase. The dagger couldn’t have been worth anything and the purse was likely of no value, either. The lad now kneeling in the mud wore clothing that was serviceable but not overly fine, but no cloak. He was soaked to the skin with his shorn hair plastered to his head. He was also gasping for breath, as if he’d never once taken a decent blow to the gut.

  Gervase shook his head. The current crop of lads France produced was disappointing, to say the least.

  He was tempted to leave the boy there on the side of the road, but something stopped him. He couldn’t credit it to any altruistic motive, so he decided that he would blame a vile meal and a sour stomach for the fact that he couldn’t bring himself to turn his horse away and head for home. Any desire he’d had to ride over his land had disappeared abruptly at the sight of three lads he could have bested with a steely glance a year ago. He couldn’t bring himself to admit that without the advantage of a horse, he would have been at their mercy. Better to credit the weather for his change of heart.

  He scowled down at the boy. “Up on your feet like a man, you woman, or have you no pride?”

  In answer, the boy threw up. Well, at least he’d had the manners to turn away and vomit into the weeds. Perhaps the manners of peasants had improved whilst he’d been riding all over France, ridding those peasants’ masters of their horses, armor, and whatever other gear could be used as ransom at tourney. There, that was a pleasant thought. Gervase concentrated on that while he waited for the peasant before him to finish with his business.

  The boy wiped his mouth finally with a trembling hand, then looked up.

  Gervase almost fell off his horse.

  That was, he admitted freely, the most beautiful boy he had ever seen, the poor little bugger. He’d obviously had a rough go of it. Blood from a cut over his eye had coursed down his face and somehow dried in spite of the wet, matching perfectly the new blood dripping down his chin from where he’d obviously just been struck in the mouth. Blackened eyes or dirt? Difficult to tell, but the dazed look in those eyes made Gervase suspect foul play. He might have pitied the boy, if he’d had any pity left.

  “Where’s your home?” he asked briskly.

  The lad shook his head, then clutched that head quickly in his hands.

  Gervase frowned. Perhaps the lad had run away. “Your master’s name, then,” he demanded.

  “I . . . I don’t remember.”

  Gervase would ha
ve pressed him a bit harder, but he didn’t suppose he was going to have any decent answer whilst the lad was again puking up what was left of his guts. He put his hand over his own belly protectively, then decided his hand was of better use over his mouth. He would have stuck his fingers in his ears, but that would have shown an appalling lack of control.

  The lad looked up at him with a truly lovely pair of aqua eyes, gurgled, then those eyes rolled back in his head and he pitched forward into the mud, quite obviously senseless.

  Damn it anyway.

  Gervase cursed viciously. He started to ride on only to realize he was still sitting in the same bloody place, still cursing in a way that would have singed the ears of any of the nuns up the way at the abbey at Caours. He was tempted to ride there and send them out for a rescue, but that would mean leaving the lad facedown in a puddle. By the time the sisters arrived, the boy would have drowned.

  Gervase tried to shrug. One less peasant to feed. France would have been better off that way.

  He cursed a bit more.

  He went so far as to insist his horse walk on, which it did, in a grand, sweeping circle that led him right back to where he’d started from. He looked down at the boy now on his left and cursed a bit more. To say he didn’t want to become involved in another’s misery was understating it badly. The very thought of it sent unpleasant sensations down his spine to curl up quite unhappily in the pit of his stomach. He was quite content to go on with his own miserable life and leave the rescuing to those more inclined.

  But if not you, then who?

  “Any number of fools,” he ground out.

  Unfortunately, Fate seemed not to be listening. And he knew it was Fate nudging him. Fate or another of her vile sisters, Responsibility, Honor, or perhaps even Charity. He had more than a nodding acquaintance with all four of them, even going so far at one point to be quite proud of that fact.