Dreams of Lilacs

by Lynn Kurland

  “Lovely cloak,” Joscelin said politely. “Are you cold or off on a journey?”

  “Neither now that your brother has made such a nice fire.”

  “That wouldn’t be the first time,” Joscelin said.

  Gervase cursed him as thoroughly as he had breath for, then glared at him for good measure when he came within view. “What do you want?” he snarled. “And your humor is, as always, sadly misplaced.”

  “You need me to bring sunlight into your gloomy life,” Joscelin said, sitting down across from him.

  “That’s her chair, you fool. Get up.”

  Joscelin paused, then stood up and turned his back to the fire, waving their wench expansively back to where she’d started.

  “My apologies, demoiselle. But you still haven’t told me why you’re wearing a cloak. Seems passing pleasant in here to me.”

  “She is wearing my cloak, you idiot, because you didn’t stop her from leaving the hall and she was accosted in the midst of the courtyard!” Gervase bellowed.

  Joscelin’s mouth fell open. “By whom?”

  “Coucy’s man. The one whose nose she bloodied earlier.”

  Joscelin turned to her. “Forgive me. I had no idea.”

  She shook her head. “It was my fault. I told my guardsmen to remain inside.”

  “And they listened to you?” Joscelin asked in surprise.

  “I can be very persuasive under the right circumstances.”

  “Aye, when you’re breathing,” Gervase muttered. He started to say something else, then realized they were both staring at him in surprise. “Well,” he said defensively, “she’s not precisely ugly, is she?”

  “Hardly,” Joscelin agreed.

  “She needs a new gown,” Gervase said shortly. “Take her to your mother’s solar and find her something suitable. Do not remain inside while she changes into it.” He shot the girl he couldn’t possibly call Parsival a look. “You can attempt to repair what you’re wearing. I’ll go find you other things to mend, then you will remain here seeing to womanly things until I give you other instructions, is that understood?”

  She looked at him for several moments in silence, then nodded. Gervase shot Joscelin a dark look.

  “I would see you in the lists if I could.”

  “You have often enough in the past,” Joscelin said easily. “I daresay you’ll be there again in the future.”

  He said nothing because there was nothing to say. But after Joscelin and his charge had departed for safer ground, he did send a page to Cook for as much mending as she could find, then he paced in agony until a knock sounded on his door. He opened it, expecting to see Joscelin there, but it was Guy. He opened to his brother, then realized Joscelin and their servant who wasn’t a servant were hard on his heels. Guy gave way to their serving wench and Gervase ignored how the look of admiration his next youngest brother gave her irritated him. She was a servant, nothing more. What did he care how his brothers looked at her?

  “You look as if you need an afternoon in the lists,” Guy said easily. “I’ve offered several times, brother, to aid you.”

  “I don’t think I could stand two minutes against you,” Gervase said, though it cost him a great deal to admit as much. “I’ll begin with a much lesser swordsman. Perhaps that lesser swordsman there,” he said, glaring at Joscelin.

  Joscelin only smiled. Guy shrugged and made Gervase a bow.

  “I’ll be off to see to what is needful, then.”

  Gervase nodded, because the words of gratitude he should have been uttering were simply beyond him at the moment. Guy merely smiled and left the chamber, no doubt to see to things Gervase should have been attending to himself.

  He stood aside as Cook arrived with two enormous baskets of mending and the tools necessary to see to them. He watched Joscelin treat that exquisite serving wench with far more deference than he would have a servant he merely wanted to bed. He waited until she was settled, then he took his brother by the back of the tunic and walked him over to the door. He pushed him out into the passageway, then joined him there, pulling the door shut behind him.

  “You know something,” Gervase said bluntly.

  Joscelin looked at him innocently. “I know many things—”

  Gervase growled at him. “Don’t be an ass. Who is she?”

  “That depends on what you intend to do with her.”

  “She’s a serving wench. What can I possibly intend to do with her?”

  “If she’s that,” Joscelin said slowly, “then why are you asking me anything?”

  “Because she’s terribly outspoken for a mere serving wench,” Gervase whispered angrily.

  “Why don’t you ask her who she is?”

  “She can’t remember.”

  “Then why would you think I would know anything?”

  “Because you’re smirking.”

  “I’m not. I’m admiring.”

  Gervase gritted his teeth. “Admire something else.”

  Joscelin only smiled and walked away. “You’re awfully possessive of a mere serving wench.”

  “I want to know what you’re thinking!” Gervase shouted.

  “I don’t think you do,” Joscelin called back cheerfully, “though I would find out who she is before I did something stupid if I were you.”

  Well, of course he intended to find out who she was. It was what he’d started out to do that day. He’d been interrupted by arriving back at the keep to find her almost overcome. Obviously, he was going to have to keep a better watch over her. If that required him to remain near her for a goodly part of the day, each day that she remained in his hall, so be it.

  Altruistic to the last, that’s what he was.

  He could only hope he wouldn’t pay a steep price for the exercising of that virtue.

  Chapter 7

  Isabelle sat in a chair near the fire and thought she might like to forget the events of the morning.

  It was odd, wishing she could trade the memories she had for ones she no longer had, but being pulled into a relatively deserted part of the courtyard by a man with less-than-chivalrous intentions was something she would have preferred not to remember. Knowing she was responsible for the saints only knew what where Gervase’s guardsmen were concerned was worse.

  She’d spent the rest of the day in Gervase’s solar, mending and being quite grateful for a gown that fit and didn’t sport a rent down its front. She’d had her meals brought to her, been escorted to the garderobe as often as she cared to be, and passed the rest of the time doing something she didn’t mind doing. It gave her ample time to watch the goings-on around her.

  Brothers had arrived singly or in pairs as seemed to suit them until she had all of them in the solar with her. Even Guy had joined them after supper, having been prevailed upon by his younger brothers to read them something. Isabelle could scarce believe anyone was wealthy enough to own so many folios, but she couldn’t deny what she’d seen.

  It was a gathering she was accustomed to, which gave her a strange sort of comfort. It also wasn’t as if she wouldn’t have been sitting at home, stitching as well, which also gave her comfort. Yves had spent the past hour sitting on a stool in front of the fire, moving that stool progressively closer to her until he was leaning against the front of her chair. She ruffled his hair at one point and had a sweet smile in return. It was enough like being with her nieces and nephews that she felt her heart be eased.

  Fabien was lying on the rug at her feet, contemplating soldiers someone had carved out of wood. Lucien and Pierre were engaged in chess and Joscelin was sitting to her left, staring thoughtfully into the fire.

  Guy set aside the book suddenly and sighed. “Enough for the moment.” He looked at her. “Demoiselle, you needn’t continue to ply your needle. Take your ease.”

  She smiled, though she did set down the sheet she was hemming. “I thank you for your concern, but I don’t consider this taxing work. I’ve done it at home often enough.”

  Joscelin
looked at her carefully. “Are your memories returning, then?”

  “I remember how to stitch,” she hedged. “Is that not enough for the day?”

  He smiled pleasantly. “I suppose so, for it means my hose perhaps might cease to have holes in the toes. But let’s stretch ourselves to choose a name for you.” He looked at his brothers. “Lads?”

  “Marie,” Yves said promptly. “I like that name.”

  “Something more elegant,” Fabien said.

  “Hildegard,” Joscelin said.

  Isabelle shot him a look, but he only laughed.

  “Something else, perhaps. Imogen or Catherine or Isolde.” He looked at her. “What do you think?”

  “I think I don’t have an opinion,” she said promptly. Actually, she did have an opinion and that was that Joscelin was thinking on a few too many names similar to her own for her taste. Perhaps it made no difference if he did know who she was, but obviously her father’s injunctions about secrecy were too ingrained in her to ignore.

  “I won’t pester you,” Joscelin said pleasantly. “Instead, why don’t you pester us? Ask us anything you like and we’ll give you the complete truth.”

  She looked at the collection of Gervase’s brothers and wondered why he wasn’t there with him. “Where is your brother?” she asked, before she thought better of it.

  Guy laughed a bit. “He is the most interesting of us, to be sure. And I imagine he’s off doing lord-of-the-manor things. I’m happy to see him take over the task, though I was willing to see to it in his stead for a bit.”

  “Guy is too modest,” Joscelin said. “The keep would have gone to ruin without him. He is also the one who pulled Gervase from the fire and saved the hall.”

  Isabelle shifted to look at Joscelin. “Is the entire tale tellable or would that be asking too much to know it?”

  “’Tis freely told as long as Gervase isn’t within earshot,” Joscelin said seriously. “’Twas last fall when the harvest was full on—”

  “Nay, you must go farther back than that,” Guy said. “He wouldn’t have been here if Father had been alive, which would have changed the entire sequence of events.” He looked at Isabelle. “Our father died almost a year ago, you see, and our mother—well, let’s say she wanted to pursue her interests elsewhere. At court, as it happens.”

  Isabelle had seen the clothing the woman had left behind and even that small glimpse into her trunk had told her perhaps all she needed to know. Things were assuredly more refined in France when it came to fashion, but even the woman’s leavings were sumptuous, far beyond anything her own mother would have thought to have made up. Far too costly.

  “Is she still there?” Isabelle ventured.

  Guy nodded. “She writes now and again, just to see how we fare.”

  “To describe her lavish life,” Lucien said in disgust, “and remind us to see her kept firmly in it.”

  Guy shot him a look. “Hold your tongue, brother.” He looked at Isabelle and smiled. “My mother’s family was not wealthy and my father was good enough over the course of his lifetime to see to their needs. Gervase has made a few changes.”

  “Be honest about it,” Joscelin said with a frown. “Gervase sees to the care of our mother’s family without hesitation. Our uncles he has cut off, but you must admit they deserve as much.”

  Guy conceded the point with a nod. “They are a fine collection of wastrels, true. At least our aunt is seen to along with Mother and Grandmère, so I don’t suppose they have any reason to complain.”

  “Nay, they do not,” Joscelin said pointedly.

  Isabelle assumed, based on the looks they were exchanging, that they had had this conversation more than once.

  Joscelin turned to her. “As Guy was saying, our Father died a year and a half ago. Gervase and I were off tourneying—”

  “Again,” Guy grumbled.

  “’Tis hardly our fault you don’t care for it,” Joscelin said with a shrug. “You were invited to come along, more than once.”

  “I had other things to do,” Guy said quietly. “Here, as it happens.”

  “Which was your choice.” Joscelin turned back to Isabelle. “As I was saying, Ger and I were off razing the countryside and plunging cheeky knights into poverty by ransoming them for ridiculous sums when we received word that our father was dead. We hurried—”

  Guy sighed but said nothing.

  “We hurried,” Joscelin said, “but we were quite far away and by the time we returned, Father was already buried. The only reason the hall wasn’t in complete chaos was because our good Guy here took charge. Very capably done.”

  “Thank you,” Guy said dryly. He looked at Isabelle. “Once my brother returned, he of course took his rightful place. He named the day of harvest as was custom, though he has unusual ideas about how that should be accomplished—”

  “What Guy means is that Ger went out in the fields and actually picked things off vines,” Joscelin said with a snort, “which Guy finds slightly beneath him.”

  “It is good to maintain the boundaries of rank,” Guy said mildly.

  Isabelle supposed they had had that conversation more than once as well. It was odd, she had to admit, to watch the men of another family discuss things they had obviously had a lifetime’s worth of discussion over. She could have sat in her father’s solar at Artane, brought up a simple topic, and predicted exactly what her family would say about it. Here, there were undercurrents she didn’t expect and couldn’t anticipate. She wondered what Gervase would say about any of it, if anything.

  “He has his reasons to associate with the peasantry,” Joscelin said.

  “And see you how those reasons have served him!”

  “Guy, he wasn’t in the fields when he was attacked, he was in the hall.”

  “Attacked?” Isabelle asked.

  Joscelin nodded. “Though there is a bit of confusion surrounding that. Guy isn’t completely wrong when he suggests that Gervase being in the fields contributed to the disaster. The last time I saw my brother that day, he was speaking to his forester. I was distracted by an exceedingly handsome wench who I fear I thought might enjoy a tour of the stables—”

  “And did she?”

  Joscelin smiled faintly. “I don’t remember, actually. By the time we’d examined the very fine qualities of my brother’s horseflesh, I could smell smoke. I fear I left her behind. I ran to the hall, meeting Guy along the way, and we came inside to find Gervase lying on the floor and the hall on fire around him. If Guy hadn’t been there, we wouldn’t have saved him.”

  “How terrible,” she murmured.

  “It was Fate,” Guy said. “I found my brother on the floor, unconscious, a bolt sticking out of his leg and a heavy stone from the mantel crushing his right arm. Joscelin arrived just in time and we managed to pull Gervase to safety.” He shot Joscelin a look. “I still say something must have happened to him in the fields.”

  “So he could drag himself back to the hall by himself, then set the whole damned place on fire?” Joscelin asked. “Help me understand how that is possible.”

  “Men can be carried, you half-wit.”

  “Why not let him simply rot in the field—”

  Joscelin stopped speaking abruptly. Isabelle looked up and understood why. Gervase stood at the doorway, looking less than pleased. He walked into the solar and shut the door behind him. Guy rose without having been asked and vacated what was obviously Gervase’s chair.

  The lord of the hall limped over, then lowered himself with obvious effort into the chair. He leaned his head back against the wood and closed his eyes. Isabelle had no trouble discerning that he was in obvious pain.

  If he had been caught in a fire, he was very fortunate it hadn’t touched his face. As for the rest of him, he didn’t look overly damaged save his right hand, which looked as if he’d thrust it into a cooking fire. She supposed it was too late to heal it, though she wasn’t above considering a thing or two. Not that he would have allowed it, like
ly. If his brothers fell silent about his accident when he entered a chamber, he certainly wasn’t going to want to discuss it with her.

  She considered, then looked at Joscelin. “Have you a lute?”

  Gervase opened his eyes and looked at her in surprise. “You can play?”

  “Ah,” she managed, stalling as best she could. “Can’t everyone?”

  “Perhaps she is a jongleur,” Yves said from where he sat in front of her. He twisted around and looked at her. “Are you, mistress?”

  “I suppose anything is possible,” she said, “though I’m sure my skills are paltry compared to any of yours.”

  “Does anyone in your family play?” Joscelin asked.

  “My—” She shut her mouth. “I don’t think I remember.”

  “Don’t torment the girl, Jos,” Guy said with a snort. He walked over to a trunk and pulled out a lute. “I’ll entertain you with my paltry skills.”

  His skills were hardly that, though Isabelle supposed her brother John was the far superior lutenist. She closed her eyes and found she could bring to mind numerous times when she had sat in her father’s solar, listening in just such a way to her younger brother trot out the songs he had learned from the extremely expensive master he’d studied with. Their grandmother had paid for those lessons and Isabelle had taken her share, so she supposed the gold had been well spent.

  She realized almost immediately that playing for anyone would be a very bad idea indeed. Whilst she recognized many of the songs Guy played, she found there were many she didn’t know. If she were to play the things she knew, it was entirely possible someone might make note of them and divine where she had learned them.

  “Bed, lads,” Gervase said suddenly, interrupting Guy during a song. “Guy, give Joscelin your lute and see the lads safely to where they belong.”

  Guy rose willingly enough and handed his lute to Joscelin. “Put that away,” he commanded.

  Joscelin nodded and merely watched his brother gather up the rest of the brothers and leave the solar. Isabelle reached for her stitching, but Gervase shook his head.

  “Play for me.”

  She bit back half a dozen retorts that came immediately to mind. Indeed, all that time she’d spent writing down her brothers’ most stinging replies had obviously not been wasted. But the man was feeding her, he had rescued her not once but twice. And she had the feeling that he was baiting her for what were no doubt his own perverse reasons. She looked at him narrowly, lest he mistake compliance for acquiescence, then took the lute from Joscelin.