Dreams of Lilacs

by Lynn Kurland

  “Anything in particular your commanding self would care to hear?”

  “Something in tune, hopefully.”

  It was on the tip of her tongue to tell Gervase to go to Hell, but she thought that might be ill-advised. She took the lute, retuned it, then sat and thought for a moment or two before she chose something that John had claimed to have heard the last time he’d been in London. She didn’t watch either of the brothers as she played, preferring to watch the fire so she didn’t have to see their reactions. She was hardly her brother’s equal, but she had sung with him often enough and she could certainly tell when she was out of tune.

  She finished and hazarded a glance at her audience. Joscelin was simply watching her with a small smile on his face.

  Gervase, however, was gaping at her.

  “Out of tune?” she asked sweetly.

  He shut his mouth. “Another.” He paused. “If you please.”

  “Do you know this?” Joscelin asked and hummed a tune. “I’ll sing it with you, if you like.”

  She was surprised not by the offer, but by how it caught her about the heart. How many times had she and John done the same thing to entertain their family in the evenings? It wasn’t so much that which grieved her as it was the fact that she couldn’t remember the last time she’d done the like. After Michelmas? In the dead of winter? She closed her eyes briefly and tried to bring to mind the last thing she could remember. She could see Arthur’s face and felt a sense of urgency about the conversation, but she had no idea what the conversation had been about. It had been at her father’s gates, which wasn’t a surprise given that her father never allowed him inside.

  She took a deep breath and ignored her unease. At the very least, she had to get word to someone that she was well, though she supposed she could just as easily walk out the front gates and trudge to Beauvois. She supposed the easiest thing to do would have been to simply tell Gervase who she was and ask for an escort, but something stopped her. For all she knew, she had come to France with the express purpose of accomplishing something at Monsaert, though what that could have been save proving to herself that Gervase de Seger did indeed not have horns, she couldn’t have said.

  But word, at least, would have to be sent.

  Guy was the most likely choice. He was always leaving the keep for one reason or another. Perhaps he wouldn’t be opposed to a little errand of mercy to the abbey at Caours.

  “My lady?”

  She looked at Joscelin and smiled. “Sorry. I was lost in thought.”

  “Finding any memories in the weeds there?”

  She realized what he’d called her, but assumed that was just Joscelin being polite. She shook her head. “Nothing useful. Let’s sing.”

  Joscelin had a lovely voice. She was slightly surprised to find there was a third voice as well, humming the occasional octave below where she was, then occasionally adding a more complicated harmony. She finished the last note, then looked at Gervase.

  “Very lovely, my lord.”

  He took a deep breath, then put his hands on his knees. “You may play again tomorrow night.”

  “Very gracious of you, my lord.”

  He shot her a look, then looked at Joscelin. “She’ll sleep in my chamber—”

  “But, Ger,” Joscelin said in surprise, “she cannot.”

  “I wasn’t suggesting she sleep with me,” Gervase said stiffly, shooting his brother a murderous look. “She will take my bed because the chamber is the most secure. I will sleep here.”

  “On the floor?” Isabelle said in surprise. “But you cannot.”

  Gervase shot her a look. “I do believe, demoiselle, that you, being a servant, are not in a position to tell me what to do. And haven’t we had this discussion before?”

  Isabelle considered what remained in her arsenal of feminine wiles. That thought felt very familiar, which left her wondering if perhaps she had considered the same quite recently. She struggled to latch on to the memory, but finally had to simply let it slip away. At least she remembered what she had to use in getting her way, not that she’d had to use that collection of levers very often. The truth was, she had never asked for very much which left her father granting her whatever small request she made of him without hesitation.

  She suspected, though, that coming to France without a dozen of his fiercest guardsmen had been something she hadn’t dared even approach him about, which led her to wonder just how she’d managed it and who had come with her.

  And where they were at present.

  She rose, returned the lute to its place, then walked back to the fire and looked at Gervase.

  “My lord, it is not coddling to insist that you use common sense. If you sleep on the floor, you will not be able to rise in the morning and then where will you be? Your people depend on you to protect them. How will you do it if you cannot move?”

  He cursed, then heaved himself to his feet. He glared at her, seemingly on the off chance she had misinterpreted his first look, then walked out of the solar without speaking further. Isabelle looked at Joscelin.

  “That went well,” she said.

  “He’s touchy.”

  “He has reason, I daresay.”

  Joscelin rose and smiled. “He does, but don’t let him trouble you. If I had said the same thing, he would have acquainted my mouth with his fist. Repeatedly.”

  “I can’t believe that.”

  He laughed a little. “Very well, he has never struck me. I won’t say, however, how often he has repaid me for some imagined slight in the lists.” He tilted his head sideways a bit and studied her. “What do you know of him?”

  “That he’s a warlock who sacrifices small animals when the moon is full.”

  “Is that so?” Joscelin asked, his eyes twinkling.

  She nodded. “I didn’t believe it, of course, because I don’t believe in ghosts and bogles and warlocks, but his reputation extends . . . ”

  “Where?” Joscelin asked. “To where does it extend?”

  She shut her mouth and glared at him.

  “Your memory fails you, I see.”

  “When I least expect it, it seems.”

  He shot her a skeptical look, but started toward the door. “You’ll be safe here if you don’t mind the floor. I’ll find you a pallet and blankets. Bolt the door until I return, lady, if you would.”

  She followed him to the door, then bolted it. She turned and looked over Gervase’s solar. She had the feeling it looked much as it had during his father’s time.

  She rummaged about until she found a quill, ink, and a piece of parchment. She had selected the smallest one she could find, so perhaps it wouldn’t be missed. She had just sat down at Gervase’s table when a banging at the door almost sent her pitching forward onto the pot of ink. She took a deep breath, then went to answer the door.

  Gervase stood there with a servant behind him, both of them carrying blankets. Isabelle stood back and watched as the servant laid out a pallet for her in front of the fire, spread a blanket on it, then built up the fire for her. He made Gervase a low bow, then fled the chamber with the alacrity of a man who thought remaining might spell his doom. Isabelle looked at Gervase to find him staring at the things atop his table. She stepped to block his view as unobtrusively as possible.

  “What,” he asked, gesturing behind her, “do you think you’re doing?”

  “Ah,” she said, because lying did not come readily to her, something she was obviously going to have to address sooner rather than later. “I was thinking that if a name came to me, I should write it down,” she attempted. “Because I can’t seem to hold on to the memories I have currently. Perhaps if I study the list, I might piece my past together.”

  He studied her for a moment or two in silence, then shrugged. “Make free with my things, then.”

  “I will repay you—”

  He waved aside her words. “Nay, the offer was genuinely made. Feel free to scribble as much as you like. May I read the names as we
ll? I might see something you don’t.”

  She tried to speak, but what was she to say? Nay, you fool, you certainly shall not read any list, especially given that she had no intentions of making a list. What she was making was a missive to send to her grandmère to let her know details that she surely wouldn’t have any other way.

  “I see I have intruded,” he said stiffly.

  She looked at him in surprise. “Well, of course you haven’t. I was just thinking about what to say.”

  He grunted at her. “You might consider that the next time you’re tempted to tell me how to run my hall.” He shot her a look. “What would your father have said if you had done the like to him?”

  She supposed it was best not to answer that. “He preferred that I stay inside.”

  “That wasn’t an answer.”

  “Nay, my lord, I believe it wasn’t.”

  He pursed his lips, then started back for the door. “Thank you for the help with my brothers. Their studies aren’t what they should be.”

  “I was happy to aid them in what small way I could.”

  He looked over his shoulder at her. “One wonders where a serving girl could possibly have learned so much Latin.”

  “Perhaps one shouldn’t,” she said easily.

  He turned and leaned back against the wall. “One wonders what else a simple serving girl can do.”

  “Perhaps one should go to bed before his curiosity overwhelms him.”

  He smiled.

  She decided abruptly that too much speech with the lord of the hall was a very bad idea, indeed. She took a deep breath. “I daresay I should be abed.”

  His smile faded, then he turned and walked out the door, pulling it closed behind him.

  “Bolt it,” came his voice, low but clear through the door.

  She crossed the chamber and threw the bolt home. She put her hands on the door and forced herself to take deep, even breaths. Even if she had been looking for a husband, she wouldn’t have chosen Gervase de Seger. He had secrets, he was ill-humored, he was exceptionally bossy to women he was in the midst of protecting. She suspected, after she’d considered that list to her satisfaction, that his worst flaw was his handsomeness when he scowled.

  She didn’t want to think about how he looked when he smiled.

  She shook herself, hoping to restore some small bit of good sense. She had a quest to be about, obviously, but the first thing to do was determine the lay of the land outside Monsaert. The fastest and easiest way to do that was to communicate without delay with her grandmother so her family wouldn’t think she was dead.

  She walked across to Gervase’s desk, putting all thoughts of that desk’s owner behind her.

  Not very successfully, but perhaps she could hope for nothing more.

  Chapter 8

  Gervase slipped into the back of the village hall, less gracefully than he might have wished, but only a few turned to look at him. To those, he shot a quick, reassuring smile. For the rest, he simply hoped that when they noticed him they wouldn’t start shrieking about his having come to carry off their children to cook them up for supper.

  He leaned back against the rearmost corner of the building and forced himself to pay heed to the dispensing of lower justice that was going on in front of him. It wasn’t anything his father would have come to listen to, which had bothered Gervase on more than one occasion.

  ’Tis what they do and leave them to it, Gaspard de Seger had instructed. They’ll bring their most pressing concerns to me in good time.

  Gervase had disagreed at the time, though he’d kept his mouth shut. After his father was gone, he had decided that he would be a different sort of master. It was a bit difficult to quell an uprising if a man had no idea what was happening half a league from his front gates.

  The concerns were of the usual sort: water, food, and shelter and how to keep ruffians from the forest from making off with all three. Given that those numbered amongst his concerns as well, he was happy to see what sorts of solutions his villagers could hit upon.

  He listened for most of the meeting until he knew that if he didn’t move, he wasn’t going to be able to walk without either an embarrassing display or a great deal of aid, which would have been embarrassing enough. He slipped back out the back door, grimacing as he continued on with muscles that vigorously protested the work. He supposed the pain would have been far worse if he’d spent the night on the floor in his solar. Of course he wasn’t going to admit that to the woman back at the keep, she of the mouth that ran too freely at his expense.

  Where had a serving wench learned to play the lute that well? Or to speak Latin easily as well as he could? The saints only knew what else she could do. He had the feeling he was going to have to start admitting things to himself very soon that he didn’t want to admit.

  She was obviously not a servant.

  The daughter of a minor noble, perhaps, or a well-educated freeman. Surely naught but a man he could intimidate with a look and avoid any patriarchal displeasure. Her presence in his hall could be deemed merely a little misunderstanding, one that could be resolved very simply with an apology and a smile. No need for bloodshed.

  He walked about the village green, grateful for even the smallest bit of freedom to think. It wasn’t that he couldn’t think at the keep. There was simply too much there that required his immediate and full attention. He hardly had time to even let his mind rest from one problem before he generally found himself assaulted by yet another that needed to be solved before he could do anything else.

  He walked with his hands clasped behind his back, watching at times what lay before his feet so he didn’t trip and land on his face, at other times watching the sky and his surroundings lest he not be taken unawares. And while he was about that happy task, he allowed himself to think about what he had been. Before the fire. It was something he rarely did, because it was simply too depressing.

  He supposed what he missed the most about his former life was the freedom to simply stride about the world, sure in his ability to face anything that came his way and emerge the victor. There was something to be said for having women throw themselves in his path and insist on attention, knights throw themselves at his feet and plead for mercy, nobles spend time devising a way to have him grace them with his presence.

  It was entirely possible he might have been slightly arrogant about it all.

  The one thing he was particularly sure of was that no fool would have plowed him over without having marked him beforehand—such as the fool who had come close to knocking him off his feet. He caught himself on his right leg and almost had it buckle underneath him. As it was, the pain almost brought him to his knees.

  He regained control of both his leg and his temper and looked at the man in front of him who was babbling frantically about something Gervase couldn’t quite make out. The fool was some sort of nobleman, obviously, but a very rumpled one.

  “Cease,” Gervase said in annoyance, “unless you’ve something useful to say.”

  The man looked at him, then, blessedly, held his tongue until he seemingly had control over himself. “I’ve lost her,” he managed.

  “Lost who?”

  “My fiancée,” the man said hoarsely.

  Gervase didn’t want to say the first thing that came to mind, which was that the wench in question had obviously found sense and fled before having to wed the tall, gangly youth standing in front of him. He dredged up a bit more patience.

  “Where did you lose her?”

  “On board a ship—”

  “Impossible,” Gervase said. “How can you possibly lose someone aboard a ship?”

  “It sank!”

  Gervase put his hand on the man’s shoulder. “Perhaps,” he said slowly, “she drowned. How were you able to escape?”

  “I took a different ship—and paid handsomely for the privilege, I’ll tell you that. There was a terrible storm and her ship was lost to it.” He clutched Gervase’s arm. “Her father will kill
me!”

  As well the man should. Gervase frowned and shook off the man’s hand. He folded his arms over his chest, wincing as he did so. “Did you have charge of this girl?”

  He closed his eyes briefly. “Aye.”

  “What is your name, lad?”

  “Arthur of Harwych.”

  An Englishman, of course. Gervase was only surprised the fool had managed to find a ship, much less find a captain able to get him onto proper French soil.

  “And your lady’s name—”

  “My lord Gervase!”

  Gervase left off his conversation with the frantic man in front of him and turned to the village alderman who wanted his attention. “Aye?”

  “About the planting, my lord. Perhaps you would care to see what we have stored here in the village to compare with what you have at the castle.”

  Gervase did care, so he went with the man to see what sorts of things the villagers had laid by. Of course he had enough stored at the keep to feed his own people plus those belonging to the abbey and Beauvois over the hills to the west, but there was no sense in dampening the man’s enthusiasm. He spared a brief bit of envy for Nicholas de Piaget’s view of the sea before he shrugged it aside. Beauvois was a lovely keep, true, but Monsaert was not only beautiful, it was intimidating as hell. There was much to be said for a place easily defended.

  Not that he’d managed that very well of late.

  The morning wore on and he felt his body begin to ache in familiar ways that he didn’t enjoy at all. If he didn’t at least sit for half an hour, he wouldn’t manage to get on his horse and return to the keep. He excused himself from the discussion, then walked outside. He limped along a path for a bit, then made himself at home on the back edge of an obliging farmer’s wagon. Its locale had the added benefit of giving him a good view of what was happening in the town square.