Dreams of Lilacs

by Lynn Kurland

  He now only stuck his fingers in his ears to drown out their incessant yapping.

  Even singing quite loudly the raunchiest of pub doggerels didn’t drown out that insistent and quite annoying prodding. It just left him looking no doubt as mad as everyone thought him to be. Mad and evil and ruined in both body and mind. He looked up at the sky that was now dark gray in spite of the fact that it was near noon and supposed the weather wasn’t going to improve any. He was already soaked to the skin. His mount’s mane was plastered to his neck and his forelock dripping down the length of his nose. They weren’t going to get any wetter by doing a good deed.

  He swung down out of the saddle.

  Well, in truth, he fell out of the saddle, twisted on his way down, and landed full upon his victim—er, his peasant in need of a decent rescue, rather. He had one good arm left, but that was of little use when his right leg was so damaged. He did manage to get himself up to his knees, but he had to remain there for far longer than he wanted to think about simply trying to ride out the waves of shattering agony that washed over him. He finally sat back on his heels with a gasp, then shook the boy, hoping he hadn’t wasted a good deed by killing the poor lad.

  The boy finally lifted his head.

  Unsurprisingly, he began to weep.

  Gervase would have clapped his hand to his head, but thought it might be best that at least one of the two players in the current drama not be covered in mud. He would execute the rescue, because he was already in the mud, then he would do the lad a further good turn and instill a bit of manliness in him before he turned him loose. By the saints, the sound issuing forth from the whelp in front of him couldn’t even have been called a decent howl. It was more of a whimper, as if the boy simply couldn’t take any more that day.

  Gervase had a particular distaste for whimpers, though he chose not to examine why.

  “Can you rise?” he growled.

  The noise, blessedly, ceased and the lad nodded.

  “What’s your name?”

  “I . . . don’t . . . know.”

  “Why not?”

  The boy looked about him from eyes that were definitely blackened and seemed to be actually a little baffled in general.

  “I . . .”

  “Whence do you hail?” Gervase asked impatiently.

  “Um . . .”

  Perfect. No name, no village, and obviously no ability to defend himself. Gervase supposed he could kneel there all day in the rain and the lad still wouldn’t have a decent answer for anything. He suppressed the urge to roll his eyes and instead studied the lad for a moment or two. Perhaps he should at least give the lad a name before they attempted any more noteworthy acts.

  “I shall call you Parsival,” Gervase announced. Parsival had been his favorite horse in the days when he’d had a horse worthy of that sort of name.

  Parsival the lad didn’t seem as grateful as he should have to be wearing such a grand alias, but Gervase supposed he might grow to appreciate it. He thought perhaps enlightening the lad about the numerous and marvelous qualities of his favorite jousting horse while about the happy work of getting the lad onto the back of his current horse, who was not so marvelous, would keep him from dwelling on how difficult it was to even get himself to his feet, much less himself and someone else to that place. Especially since that someone else was as weak as a gel.

  Pitiful. No wonder the boy had fled his home. The looks of disappointment from his sire had likely become too numerous to bear.

  Gervase had to pause and simply struggle for breath for a moment or two once he’d managed to stand. That and fight such enormous waves of dizziness that he greatly feared he might have to use Pars’s weeds as a place to deposit his own vile morning meal. He waited until he thought he could remain standing with some success, then reached down and pulled his shivering peasant to his feet.

  He then exhausted his descriptions of Parsival the horse, which left him too exhausted himself to do anything but stand there and watch numbly as the boy struggled to get into the saddle. At least the lad had that much skill. Unfortunately, even the effort of watching left him unable to do anything but stand there with his arm over his horse’s withers and lean his head against the patient beast’s neck.

  The saints preserve them from anyone who might have been bent on mischief. ’Twas a damned certainty it wouldn’t be him doing the saving.

  Walking, after he was able to manage it, was an agony he would have happily foregone, but there was nothing to be done about it. He had made his bed—or his road, rather—and he could only lie in it.

  He wasn’t sure how long it was before he saw the stump of a felled tree just off the rutted path he was taking. He hobbled over to it, then stood there for several minutes simply breathing. Once the pain was manageable, he availed himself of the steadiness of his ancient steed and used the poor beast as a means of heaving himself up onto that stump. Without allowing himself to consider the price he would pay, he put his foot in the stirrup and swung himself up behind his barely conscious passenger. The lad had had the good sense to wrap his hands in fistfuls of mane, so perhaps he wasn’t as useless as Gervase had initially feared. The manliness, though, was definitely a problem.

  And one he had no intention of solving, to be sure. He took the reins and encouraged his mount forward with a few feeble clicks. He had other things to be seeing to besides a stray he’d found on the side of the road. Important things. Things that required his personal attention.

  He made a list, but it wasn’t a very long one. He had long since driven off any friends he might once have possessed and the reputed blackness of his temper had seen to acquaintances and neighbors. In truth, all that was left for him to do was shout at his steward a time or two each se’nnight to make certain the man stayed fixed upon his tasks, then retreat to his bedchamber and cast spells, or torment small animals, or whatever it was the local populace suspected he was doing. They might have boasted that his wings were clipped, but he knew better. If he’d actually presented himself down at the village inn in all his gloomy glory, the whole of the tavern would have soiled themselves and prayed for mercy.

  Which was why he remained at home. Altruistic, truly, but that was one of his nobler virtues.

  The rain continued to drench him until he was within half a league of his hall. It relented then, only enough for the clouds to huddle about the towers of his castle as if they had secrets to tell the guards there, secrets they didn’t want him to hear. He would have protested, but he supposed the weather was a bit beyond his purview. He settled for scowling just as a matter of principle lest anyone think he was overcome by the sight of his hall in its current state of neglect, and continued on, muttering the odd curse under his breath to keep himself company.

  The portcullis was up, which would have infuriated him a year ago. Now, he was merely grateful he didn’t have to waste breath to call to his guardsmen to raise it. He rode through his gates and stopped in front of the stables. A stable boy appeared immediately at his side, trembling so badly he would have spooked Gervase’s horse if the poor tired steed had had any verve left in him. As it was, the beast simply reached out and nosed the boy’s tunic, no doubt looking for some sort of afternoon delicacy. Gervase tossed his reins at the boy, then considered his situation. He could shove his new acquisition off the saddle first, of course, then get down himself in the confusion, but that didn’t seem particularly sporting.

  He sighed, then gritted his teeth as he wiggled his boots free of his stirrups. He was more careful that time when he slid to the ground, but still it was breathtakingly painful. He clutched his saddle for several moments, struggling to breathe without gasping, then looked at the prize he’d brought home.

  He looked around him for aid and found it in the person of the captain of his guard. Sir Aubert was simply standing there with his arms across his chest, watching silently. Actually, Aubert did everything silently, everything from killing foes to expressing opinions on Gervase’s recovery from
the attack that had left him half dead. If Gervase hadn’t known the man for the better part of his life, he might have suspected him of foul deeds. He was quiet yet all the more terrifying because of it. The saints be praised he was trustworthy.

  He had obviously been out for a ride himself, which told Gervase that he perhaps hadn’t had as much privacy as he’d thought. Unsurprising, but somewhat comforting, truth be told.

  Aubert uncrossed his arms, then walked over to Gervase and made him a slight bow. He looked at the lad draped over the horse’s withers and merely raised an eyebrow.

  “A lad in need of a rescue,” Gervase said shortly, “as you likely already know. Dump him in the kitchens.”

  Aubert lifted Parsival’s head up by his hair, then froze. Gervase understood. A burden for the poor wretch to be so fair of face. He watched Aubert consider, glance his way briefly, then shrug. The man lifted the lad out of the saddle with surprising gentleness. Gervase would have asked his captain why he didn’t just heave the lad over his shoulder and trot off with him, but perhaps the blood on the lad’s face and the bump on his head that even Gervase could now see gave him pause.

  “The wounds were acquired at two different times,” Aubert offered mildly.

  “Think you?” Gervase asked.

  “One’s crusted over, the others are still bleeding.”

  How that man had managed to observe that in such a short time, Gervase couldn’t have said. Then again, he’d won more than one tournament thanks to those unwholesome powers of observation. If Aubert said it was so, he was happy to believe it.

  “Take him to the infirmary, then.”

  “Until he’s healed?”

  “When else? But then dump him in the kitchens. I’ve no need for yet another lad to coddle.”

  Aubert nodded, then walked away with his burden. Gervase watched him go for a moment or two, more to give himself a chance to catch his breath than because he was curious as to why his captain, who had absolutely no patience for lads who showed the slightest sign of weakness, would be so carefully carrying a boy who still should have been huddled behind his mother’s skirts.

  It was odd, though, wasn’t it?

  He shook his head, leaving things he couldn’t fathom to the realm in which they belonged, then turned his attentions to the next monumental task of the day, which was to get himself back inside his great hall where he could collapse in front of the fire and hopefully be fed something decent. He held on to his horse for another moment or two, then nodded to the master of his stables, who had stopped a lad from removing Gervase’s buttress too soon. His faithful steed was led off to his oats and his napping. Gervase wished he could have enjoyed the same attentions.

  Help arrived, happily, in the person of a half brother he could tolerate for more than a quarter hour. Heaven knew he had a robust selection to choose from. Joscelin was the second of six lads Gaspard of Monsaert had sired on a woman he’d wed not a month after Gervase’s own dam had perished. Why the pair of them hadn’t managed a girl or two to leaven the loaf, Gervase couldn’t have said. All he knew was that for the past year he’d been mother and father both to that collection of spawn and he hadn’t been equal to the task.

  Joscelin said nothing. He simply offered his shoulder as a handy place for Gervase to rest his hand as they started back toward the hall. If he had done less resting and more clutching, Joscelin didn’t seem to notice. Then again, Joscelin tended to listen more than he spoke, a trait Gervase appreciated given the endless babbling of the rest of his siblings.

  “Wet out,” was his only comment.

  “Very,” Gervase agreed.

  Joscelin said nothing more. He merely walked alongside Gervase, as slowly as if he were some species of nobleman who was making a procession through his village and feared someone might miss a particular bit of fine embroidery on his surcoat if he walked too quickly. If he paused now and again to apparently study a bit of stone out of place in the pavement, or dig about something else with his toe, Gervase made no comment. He was too busy being grateful for the chance to pause and catch his breath.

  It was truly a miracle he wasn’t dead.

  At times, he wondered if he might have been better—

  “Who’s the lad?” Joscelin asked.

  “Don’t know,” Gervase wheezed, grateful for the distraction. “I came upon him as he was being robbed. It seemed only sporting to at least trot over and see what could be done.”

  Joscelin smiled faintly. “Damnable chivalry.”

  “Isn’t that the truth,” Gervase said grimly. “Always cropping up when you least expect it.”

  Joscelin laughed a little. “I daresay. What are you going to do with him?”

  “I have absolutely no idea. Want him?”

  “Me? And what would I do with a lad?”

  “Make him your squire?”

  “Thank you, but nay. I had one, sent especially to me to curry favor with you, who I sent back because he wasn’t yet weaned. I don’t need another useless lad to train.”

  Gervase stopped and looked at his younger half brother. “I’m sorry,” he said simply.

  “Don’t be daft,” Joscelin said. “You’ll regain your strength and be what you were before. I suspect you’ve spent all this time abed not healing but rather lazing about with an endless succession of handsome wenches.”

  That wasn’t even worth a response, so Gervase merely pursed his lips and continued on his way. He heartily wished he had never left the hall that morning, but what else had he been able to do? He had spent three months abed with one leg so broken and the other wrenched about so badly that he’d wished it had been broken. His right arm had been broken as well and his hand crushed under a weight so immense he was surprised he managed to grasp anything at all. The memory of how he’d come by his wounds was sketchy at best and something he didn’t like to dwell on if he could help it.

  In truth, he couldn’t quite remember anything past seeing one fire near his stables and more smoke coming from his great hall. He’d set lads to attend to his horseflesh while he’d run back inside the hall to make certain the whole bloody place didn’t go up in flames. He’d hardly been able to see for the smoke, but he’d heard a horrendous crack echo in what had been a very elegant chamber full of fine carving and delicate stonework. He’d thought the roof was caving in only to realize that snapping sound had been his thigh bone. He’d realized that only because his leg had collapsed beneath him and he’d seen the bolt sticking out of his flesh along with what surely couldn’t have been bone. If it hadn’t been for his brothers and his captain finding him to carry him outside—

  He took a deep breath and walked back into his hall. He patted Joscelin’s shoulder, then forced himself to make his way across the floor without aid. He heard his younger brothers come tumbling inside from the direction of the kitchens, but he couldn’t bring himself to even attempt to greet them, much less name them. All he knew was that there were six of them and they deserved better than he was able to give them. He cast himself down into a chair in front of the fire and closed his eyes. Joscelin did him the favor of removing the offenders with a promise of training in the lists if the lads fetched their gear quickly. Cries of joy ensued.

  Gervase sighed, then opened his eyes. He jumped a little in spite of himself at realizing he wasn’t alone. His next youngest half brother, Guy, was sitting across from him, watching him with a faint smile.

  “Nice ride?”

  “Delightful,” Gervase muttered. “What news while I was away on my errand of mercy?”

  “The Duke of Coucy wants to make a visit.”

  Gervase realized his mouth was hanging open, so he shut it with a snap. “You cannot be serious.”

  “I believe I am.”

  Gervase rubbed his left hand over his face because that was the hand that functioned as it should. “Hell.”

  “Not this time. I understand he’s not bringing his eldest daughter.”

  The eldest daughter who would all
ow her father to skewer her on the end of his sword before she would be forced to see what had become of her erstwhile affianced lord. Gervase supposed he wouldn’t have been any happier to see her. That he had once found himself set to wed the harpy—no matter her admittedly staggering beauty—was something that continued to beggar belief. He’d obviously allowed his late father to convince him of the desirability of the match as he’d been fully into his cups.

  Of course, those happy tidings of not having to see her again any time soon didn’t do anything to solve the problem of how he was going to feed anyone, much less house them. The greater part of his castle was undamaged, but the great hall still looked a bit scorched about the edges where his servants hadn’t been able to remove the soot. He supposed a tapestry or two or a bit of whitewash would have solved that, but he hadn’t had the heart to see to either.

  “He’s only staying one night, if that eases you,” Guy continued. “He wants to see for himself that you’re still alive, I suppose.”

  “I can’t imagine why,” Gervase said, sighing deeply. The bloody floors were going to have to be cleaned, at least. “When?”

  “In a handful of days, or so I hear.”

  Gervase didn’t bother to wonder how it was that Guy heard these sorts of things and he didn’t. ’Twas common knowledge that Guy had been the one to keep things running while Gervase had been abed, trying to keep himself from dying. Perhaps it would have been better—

  He blew out his breath. He refused to entertain that thought, no matter how often it clamored for his attention. The hall was his and he would hold it as long as he had breath. He would undo the damage his father had done to it because his grandfather, Abelard of Monsaert, had made him swear an oath he would do so. Never mind that he’d been a green lad of a score and two when he’d put his hands in his grandfather’s and, in a truly subversive act, given his fealty to his grandfather, not his father.