by Lynn Kurland
Perhaps she had temporarily lost not only her memories but her ability to appreciate an exceptionally handsome man. She knew he had rescued her in the kitchens a handful of days before, but perhaps she had been more distracted by the feel of steel in her hands than she’d realized at the time. Surely that was the only reason she hadn’t spent just as much time then staring at the man in front of her as she was at present. To call him merely handsome was truly to do him an injustice. He was absolutely—
Well, she was tempted to sit down until she had better control over herself, and she couldn’t remember ever having had the sight of a man render her that unfit.
To her surprise, she realized that he was wounded. His angry stride across the great hall was less of a stride than it was a limp, as if his right leg especially plagued him. His right hand he held clenched in a fist, as if it didn’t open very easily. At least she assumed that was the reason and not because he intended to come and strike her.
She raised her sword on the off chance that she was wrong.
A soft gasp came from behind her, but that was all. She was too far into it to back away now, so she put her shoulders back, lifted her chin, and decided that if he was going to attempt an insult to her person, she would make sure it took a bit of effort.
He stopped and looked at her as if he couldn’t believe what he was seeing.
“Surely you jest, demoiselle.”
She pointed her sword at him. “You do not find me defenseless, sir.”
He looked almost as offended as Yves the Ferocious had. “I do not strike women,” he said curtly.
“And if I were a lad?”
“Then I would take you out into the lists and beat you senseless for daring to lift a blade against me,” he said. “If that makes your decision for you.”
She propped her sword up against her shoulder as she’d seen her brothers do more times than she could count, then looked at her opponent coolly.
“Then I shall be what I am and rely on your chivalry to carry the day.”
He folded his arms over his chest, no doubt in an attempt to intimidate her, but she was immune. She’d seen it done too many times in her own home to be impressed. That, and his hand hadn’t strayed to his sword hilt, which boded well for her. He also still held his right hand in a fist, which intrigued her.
“And if I have no chivalry?” he asked.
“You’ll notice that I kept the sword, just in case. Splinters can be troublesome in the right spot, you know.”
Someone from behind her guffawed but choked on his laughter at a look from the lord of the hall. He schooled his features into less of a scowl, then looked at her.
“My youngest brother should not have raised a sword against you.”
“He kicked her dust as well,” the other lad behind her said helpfully.
A scuffle ensued. She turned around, caught the littlest lad by the arm and pulled him to his feet.
“Go sit down and behave,” she said sternly.
He hesitated, looked around her at his older brother, then bolted. The next lad up in age made her a brief bow, then followed his brother to safety. She now found herself alone, facing Gervase de Seger, demon lord of Monsaert.
It was surprising just how handsome a warlock could be.
“What is your name?” he asked shortly.
She considered, then decided there was no reason to be honest. Her father wouldn’t have been in like circumstances, she was sure of it.
“I don’t remember,” she said.
“Where are you from?”
“I don’t remember that, either,” she lied. It bothered her, that little lie, but what else was she to do? Even if proper knights didn’t lie to save their necks, women were permitted a bit of leeway when using what assets they possessed. The truth was, she had several questions about her current straits and she wasn’t sure she wanted to admit more than she had to before she’d discovered those answers. She attempted a pleasant smile. “I don’t believe we’ve been properly introduced.”
His eyes narrowed. “Why would I give my name to a serving wench?”
She blinked, then realized that as far as he was concerned, that was exactly what she was. She inclined her head, then picked her broom up from where she’d dropped it. She walked over to the table and set the wooden sword down very carefully, then went back to her sweeping.
There was absolute silence in the chamber except for the brush of the straw against the stone. She swept around the boots of the lord of Monsaert, then continued on her way, not looking at anything but where she was going.
It took a bit, but finally those boots scuffed against the stone and took the lord of the hall away. She would have ignored the hitch in his step, but it was difficult to do so. She watched him casually as he limped back across the hall and slammed his way out of the front door.
Interesting.
There were murmurs behind her, but she didn’t attempt to sort them out. She simply continued with her work.
She looked up at one point to find Joscelin in her way. He moved aside, his hands clasped behind his back.
“Forgive my brother his vile humors.”
“He’s hurt.”
“Have you heard that or did you divine that by looking at him?”
“The latter, assuredly.”
“I don’t think he intended to be so rude.”
She stopped her sweeping and looked at him. “I am a lowly serving wench in a high lord’s house. Why would he favor me with anything but what I deserve?”
“Well,” he began slowly, “whatever you might or might not be, I can assure you ’tis his pain that speaks, not his cheery nature.”
She smiled. “Cheery? If I were to listen to the rumors, I would think he was instead grimly plying his dark arts on unsuspecting scullery maids after supper simply to entertain himself.”
Joscelin laughed a little. “Considering the state of his temper over the past half year, I daresay not even plying a lute and fine wine would convince unsuspecting scullery maids to tolerate him for more than a heartbeat or two.” He hesitated. “Forgive Yves as well. He has been without the gentling influence of a woman for too long. My dam found us too taxing a burden and decamped for court last year, or perhaps the year before. I don’t remember exactly when it was.”
Isabelle sighed. “The poor lads.”
Joscelin glanced at the lads collected around the table. “It was difficult for them,” he conceded. “I didn’t care, because I’ve been away from home for many years and it wasn’t as if she was particularly fond of me while I was home. For the others, though?” He shook his head. “It was hardest on Yves, of course, because he’s merely five—”
“Six a fortnight ago!” Yves bellowed.
“Six, a fortnight ago,” Joscelin corrected. “Fabien is ten, Pierre ten-and-four, and Lucien ten-and-eight. Lucien should be seeking his spurs, but our father is dead and my oldest brother Gervase—” He took a deep breath. “Well, he’s had the hall to see to, of course.”
“Of course,” she said. “And how old are you?”
“A score and three,” he said. “How old are you?”
“I don’t know,” she said, because it wouldn’t do to tell him more than she needed to. “Old enough, I suppose.”
“Are you wed?”
“Saints, nay,” she said with a laugh, then she realized that perhaps she shouldn’t be volunteering things so readily. Unfortunately, Joscelin reminded her quite a bit of Miles, which she supposed might be a very dangerous thing, indeed. She would be telling him things she hadn’t intended to very readily if she didn’t watch herself.
It was somewhat comforting, though, to realize that she might have an ally where she hadn’t looked for one.
She thanked Joscelin for the pleasant conversation, then continued to sweep, slowly moving across the hall where she might concentrate her efforts around Yves, who was not a quiet scholar. He seemed particularly unhappy about the sums he’d been set to do. She lean
ed over and whispered at him.
“Are there pebbles in your garden?”
He looked up at her, his eyes swimming with tears. “Suppose so. Why?”
“Go find me two score of them.”
“So you can chuck them at me?”
She smiled. “Of course not. You are far too fierce for me to even think such a thing. I thought simply to teach you maths the way my father taught them to me.”
“Girls can’t add.”
“Indeed?” she said easily. “Are you willing, Lord Yves, to find out if that might not be true?”
He smiled suddenly, a sunny little smile that smote her to the heart. “Lord Yves,” he said with a whisper of a laugh. “No one calls me that.”
“I shall, for ’tis your birthright, isn’t it?” She reached out and ruffled his hair. “Fetch me pebbles, my lord.”
He bounded up out of his chair and bolted for the kitchens. Isabelle watched him go, then continued to sweep until she heard rocks being deposited with enthusiasm onto the table where the boys were laboring. She found a hand suddenly on the handle of her broom and looked up to see Lord Joscelin standing there.
“What do you want?” she asked.
“I’m trading you one disagreeable task for another,” he said with a smile. “I’ll sweep; you teach sums.”
“Your brother will be furious.”
“My brother is always furious.” He took the broom away from her and nodded. “Go on with you, wench, and work your magic over there.”
She would have chastised him for referring to her so commonly, but that was what she was at present and he had said it in the same affectionate tone Miles always used, so she left him to her work and happily walked over to the table. She was immediately provided with a chair, so she sat down next to Yves and smiled.
“Shall we begin?”
“Will you parry with me if I say aye?” he asked solemnly.
She laughed. “I just might. Gather up your pebbles, Lord Yves, and let’s see how you fare.”
Within moments, she had the bulk of Gervase’s brothers either sitting at or on the table, keeping her company during her labors. It took her a bit to understand why she couldn’t stop smiling.
She felt as if she were at home.
In Monsaert, of all places, with its lord who was full of vile humors and his collection of brothers who weren’t.
She was obviously on a quest, her quest had obviously gone awry, but perhaps for the moment she could be content with attending to Yves de Seger’s sums. The rest would no doubt sort itself out as it would.
Surely nothing terrible would come of a bit of delay in her plans.
Chapter 6
Gervase looked out the window in his bedchamber and was rather grateful he was at least able to stand to do so. There had been many fortnights during which even that simple accomplishment had been beyond him.
He wasn’t sure at the moment that he was all that grateful for it, unfortunately. The fields that made up his view still looked as barren as they had four months earlier. Perhaps leaving things to lie fallow every now and again was good for them. Heaven knew he had little choice in the matter at present.
Obviously it was far past time he made a brief journey to the village to speak with his prévôt to see about routing his peasants out of bed to see to spring planting. Master Humbert had served his father for years, which Gervase supposed would stand him in good stead at present. It was for damned sure he hadn’t had much of a relationship with the man before.
Besides, who knew what sort of gossip he might overhear at the local inn?
He drew on a cloak, belted a useless sword about his hips out of habit, then rubbed his right thigh for a moment or two to try to ease some of the discomfort. It served him as well as it did every morning, which was to say not at all. ’Twas little wonder his temper was as black as night. If he ever had another day where he wasn’t in pain even in his sleep, he might manage something other than a snarl when he spoke. Unfortunately, he didn’t hold out much hope for it.
He could walk, though, which was definitely an improvement. Whether his bones had been set properly in his leg and arm, he couldn’t have said.
He opened the door, then walked out into the passageway. Two of his men were standing there, looking impossibly grim. At least things there were as they should have been. He smiled pleasantly at them.
“Where is Sir Aubert?” he asked.
“Training the men, Lord Gervase.”
Gervase nodded. “One of you tell him I’m riding to the village to seek out Master Humbert. I’m leaving in half an hour.”
The man nodded briskly and hurried off to deliver the tidings. Gervase made his way to the hall, trailed by his remaining guardsman. He would break his fast, hopefully without seeing anyone he didn’t want to see, then force himself to get on a horse and get himself to the village. He couldn’t say he felt any stronger than he had the day he’d brought home that stray wench, but perhaps he was. He’d forced himself to walk to the stables and back each day for the past several days. He supposed he wasn’t managing it in any less time, but at least after the journey he wasn’t retreating immediately to his solar to give vent to a very large collection of vile curses for the rest of the day. He could only hope a small journey out of the keep wouldn’t finish what was left of him.
He limped into the great hall, then came to an abrupt halt. That was painful enough that he had to put his hand out to the nearest wall and simply breathe for a moment or two. Once he could manage that, he had another look at the madness going on in front of him.
His orphan who had started out as a lad, then become a lass, had now apparently decided she was a scholar.
“She’s helping Lucien with his Latin.”
Gervase scowled at Joscelin who had seemingly recently taken up the very annoying habit of popping up where he was least expected. “She’s doing what?”
“You heard me.”
“I heard you,” Gervase agreed, “but I didn’t believe you.” He looked back at his newly acquired serving wench who was currently shaking her head and instructing his younger brother to repeat what he was doing. “I still don’t believe it.”
“Come and listen, then.”
“I don’t have time,” Gervase lied. “Things to do.”
Joscelin didn’t move. “Have you considered that she might not be just a serving wench?”
“I’ve been too busy to consider anything save my usual business.”
Joscelin only continued to regard him with far too much discernment. “Of course. Why would you be curious about a girl who looks like that?”
“She’s a runaway servant,” Gervase said, because that sounded like a reasonable thing to say. “I’m being excessively generous by giving her food and a place to lay her head.”
“And two of your own guardsmen. Very generous.”
Gervase looked at his brother coolly. “I believe I’m finished with this conversation.”
Joscelin only continued to watch him, a smile playing around his mouth. Gervase was heartily tempted to wipe that smirk off his brother’s face, but Joscelin was, damn him to Hell, at the height of his prowess. That was saying something because the lad had been formidable at ten-and-six when Gervase had first begun to take him along tourneying. That decision had been easily made. Joscelin was the only one of his half brothers he had known well enough to trust. He wasn’t sure if that said more about him or about his stepmother, who hadn’t trusted him around her sainted spawn.
He took a deep breath. Perhaps it was just better not to think at all.
“I think I would be careful with her,” Joscelin said with a shrug as he walked away.
Gervase was tempted to beat a few details out of the lad, but Joscelin had already trotted lithely out of reach and Gervase had no desire to bellow after him. He scowled. The wench was nothing more than she seemed, which was a servant. Perhaps she’d been a servant to a lord with sons and she’d eavesdropped on their lessons as s
he’d been scrubbing the floors. Perhaps she’d been cleaning ashes out of the fire as the lord himself had furthered his learning. The reasons why a lowly serving wench with such astonishing beauty might have skills that most scullery maids did not possess were many and varied. He was just certain he would be giving them a proper examination the first chance he had.
Fortunately for him, that opportunity was not presenting itself at present. He turned his back on the spectacle of his brothers sitting happily around the table, waiting breathlessly for that angel of a girl to help them with their studies, and stomped toward the front door with as much enthusiasm as he could muster.
That vigor lasted until he’d gotten out to the courtyard. He had to stop for a moment or two, then lean over and catch his breath until the pain in his leg receded a bit.
Damn her, who was she?
• • •
An hour and many curses later, he walked into the village hall and looked for a seat that he could get back up from comfortably. He wasn’t surprised to watch villagers scatter before him like leaves before a fall wind. He rolled his eyes, then took the first seat he found. Aubert sat down with him, then had a casual look about. Gervase had no doubts he could simply ask his captain for the number and kind of everyone in the common chamber and have an accurate account. It wouldn’t have surprised him to know Aubert had marked not only what everyone was wearing, but what they were eating as well.
He looked up as his forester swept into the tavern and strode over to him. He was bowed to, then Master Humbert took the third seat.
“A good morning to you, monseigneur le duc,” he said with a smile.
Gervase attempted a smile. “And to you, Master Humbert. What tidings from the village?”
“The usual,” Humbert said with a shrug. “Tales of your fierceness, speculation about what you do in the keep at night, questions about spring planting.”
“No worries that I won’t be able to defend them if necessary?” Gervase asked lightly.