Dreams of Lilacs

by Lynn Kurland

  That daft Englishman was still wandering about, spewing his nonsense. Gervase shook his head. He could scarce believe that anyone would have let his daughter go off in the company of that one, much less hazard a journey with him from England to France. An irresponsible father and a very foolish girl. He had no doubt that the silly wench had been caught in a storm, shipwrecked, then drowned. His only surprise was that her body hadn’t washed up on shore, but perhaps Master Arthur hadn’t considered that.

  Arthur finally gave up trying to enlist aid and instead settled for simply shuffling along, looking dejected. Gervase couldn’t help a small—a very small—bit of pity for the lad. He flipped his page a coin, asked for two cups of ale, then offered one to Arthur when he managed to drag himself over to that side of the square and collapse alongside Gervase on the back of the wagon.

  “Thank you,” Arthur said numbly, accepting the cup and then looking at it as if he hadn’t a clue what to do with it.

  “Drink,” Gervase suggested.

  Arthur drank, then dragged his sleeve across his mouth. “Her father will kill me.”

  Gervase simply held on to his cup. “Why would he?”

  “Because she asked me to accompany her on a quest to France,” Arthur said glumly. “I agreed, of course, to further win her favor. She claimed it was so she could visit her grandmother, unbeknownst to her father.”

  That would be enough to inspire a father to entertain thoughts of murder, Gervase supposed. Best not to say as much, though, lest the man beside him become too terrified by the thought to continue his tale.

  “There was some urgency to her journey, even though I think her grandmother is hale yet.”

  Gervase frowned. “Is your fiancée English?”

  “Of course.”

  “Yet she had a French grandmother.”

  “Her grandmother is the abbess at Caours.”

  Gervase spewed out what he’d managed to get into his mouth. He looked at Arthur in shock. “Abbess Mary?”

  Arthur looked at him in surprise. “Do you know her?”

  “Well, of course I know her,” Gervase said. “We’re three bloody leagues from where she prays.” He looked at the man next to him. “This poor wench’s grandmère is the abbess?”

  Arthur looked at him nervously, then nodded.

  “But Abbess Mary has a son . . . ”

  His words ground to a halt right along with his wits, apparently. Mary of Caours was an interesting case, to be sure. She had been made the abbess of Caours a score of years ago, at least. Rumor had it her ill-fated marriage to Etienne de Piaget had been brief, producing a single son, a son she had apparently left in the care of others as she’d been forced to flee to France to save both her life and her son’s. Gervase was a bit hazy on the details of how that had all come about, but he was clear on one thing: Mary’s son was the very intimidating and protective Rhys de Piaget who just happened to be the father of the exceedingly lethal lord of Beauvois, Nicholas de Piaget. Robin de Piaget as well, damn that one to the fires of Hell. Gervase thought there might have been an older sister somewhere in that litter, but what he was sure of was that there was a youngest daughter whose beauty was rumored to cause otherwise reasonable grown men to fall to their knees in amazement.

  A daughter named Isabelle.

  He grasped for any last shreds of composure and examined the details in a cold, calculating fashion that perhaps even Aubert wouldn’t have matched on his best day. There was nothing odd about Lord Rhys having a youngest daughter. There was especially nothing odd about the fact that Rhys de Piaget should have a gloriously lovely daughter named Isabelle while he himself should have a new servant—who couldn’t possibly be a servant—who was also gloriously lovely but happened not to remember her name.

  He looked at Arthur and found a new reason to scarce believe what his eyes were telling him. Isabelle de Piaget was betrothed to that irritating scab of a man?

  He had never seen her, of course, because he had never been a guest at Beauvois when she’d been there and he had avoided England like the plague when she’d been at home. But he’d heard the tales. ’Twas rumored her goodness alone qualified her for sainthood, but her face inspired lays sung with reverence.

  Joscelin hadn’t seen Isabelle herself, though he had reputedly seen her elder sister, Amanda, because he knew Isabelle’s older brother Miles fairly well and he didn’t quite have Gervase’s undeserved reputation for being a ravisher of noblemen’s daughters, a lack of reputation that had allowed him places Gervase hadn’t dared go.

  Was there a reason beyond brotherly amusement for Joscelin to have been smirking at him for the past fortnight?

  Gervase looked at Arthur. “Are you telling me,” he said, trying to temper his surprise, “that you are betrothed to Isabelle de Piaget?”

  The man shifted. Gervase had lost many things, but his ability to spot a liar at fifty paces hadn’t been affected.

  “Almost,” Arthur said.

  “Almost,” Gervase echoed. “How betrothed does that make you?”

  Arthur shifted. “Perhaps not as betrothed as I would like to be, if we’re discussing something quite formal and archaic.”

  “Which means you haven’t managed to speak to her father yet,” Gervase noted.

  “Not yet,” Arthur admitted. “I’m hoping being of service to her will endear me to her sire and then he will agree to allow me in the front gates.”

  “I imagine not, now that you’ve lost her,” Gervase said with a snort. He shifted to look at the man beside him. “What proof do you have that the ship was lost at sea? How long ago was it?”

  “It was sighted coming hard up against the coast near here,” Arthur said weakly, “almost a fortnight ago. I’ve found several of the crew who survived washing up ashore. I’m convinced she did as well.”

  “And why is that?” Gervase asked, having another sip of strengthening ale. He thought he just might have to have another cup very soon.

  “I found one of her boots.”

  Damn it, if he didn’t stop hearing things like that, he wasn’t going to manage a decent drink of anything. He dragged his sleeve across his own mouth, ignored the ale he’d spewed all over his own bloody boots, and looked at Arthur.

  “What?” he said in astonishment.

  “She apparently lost one of her boots at sea. It was washed up onto the shore.”

  “And how could you possibly know what boots she was wearing?”

  “Because they were mine,” Arthur said sadly. “I loaned them to her. My father’s cobbler has his mark, of course. They were of a particular color, a dark russet to match my horse—”

  Gervase had the feeling he knew exactly the color of Arthur of Harwych’s horse. He didn’t want to think on why that was.

  “She intended to travel in disguise,” Arthur said wearily, “as a lad. I didn’t see her, to be sure, but I know she had plans to cut off her hair—”

  Gervase realized the man’s mouth was still moving, but he could no longer hear anything he was saying.

  His servant had been wearing one boot when he’d rescued her.

  He shook his head, because that helped him to cling to the surety that this was all a terribly amusing coincidence. The boy he’d rescued who had turned out to be a girl without a name hadn’t been . . . well, she hadn’t been in disguise. She had been garbed as a lad because that was a comfortable way for a woman of her beauty to travel alone along ruffian-infested roads. Her hair was shorn because, ah, because she no doubt feared the summer would be hot and less hair would be more comfortable for her. After all, it wasn’t as if when he’d first seen her she’d looked half drowned. Or traumatized. Or sporting any sort of wounds that could have come from washing up ashore, such as a large bump on her head, which had rendered her without critical memories of who she was.

  It definitely wasn’t that she was so damned beautiful, he could hardly look at her.

  And her name was likely Hildegard. He couldn’t see himself ca
lling out the name Hildegard in dulcet tones for the rest of his days—

  “I think I should go to Beauvois.”

  Gervase looked at Arthur, then shook his head. “I wouldn’t advise it,” he said promptly. By the saints, that was all he needed, to have the fool next to him possibly spouting things he should have been keeping to himself. “Lord Nicholas will kill you. Go back to England.”

  “But Lord Rhys will kill me there!” Arthur wailed.

  “Then head south to Italy. Good food, lovely women.” He nodded. “That’s the place for you.”

  Arthur looked as if he were ready to weep. Gervase had to admit he sympathized. If he thought he would have to soon face the full brunt of Rhys de Piaget’s wrath, he might have been tempted to weep as well. Not a year ago, of course, but now? Aye, he would have scurried home, lowered the portcullis with alacrity, and bolted himself into his hall. He might have even gone so far as to hide under his bed.

  In fact, all but the last was sounding better all the time. Perhaps he could command his new serving wench to come and play for him whilst he cowered. If she was reluctant, perhaps instead of plying his lute, he could have her translate all the ways possible to say when your father finds out what I’ve done to you he will pull out my entrails, wrap them around my neck seven times, and then watch as I slowly and quite painfully smother until I’m dead into all the languages she knew.

  He patted Arthur absently on the shoulder, then heaved himself to his feet and handed his cup to his page to run back to the tavern. He walked to the stables with perhaps more energy than he might have another time. There was no time like the present to try to make it so when a furious father arrived on his front stoop, he wouldn’t find Gervase unable to even heft a sword in his own defense.

  He rode home, dismounted in front of his stables, then limped back to the great hall. He found Joscelin and Guy inside, standing in front of the fire no doubt discussing the few inane thoughts that were rattling around in their empty heads. He strode over to them—

  Very well, he shuffled over to them, but it was done with a fair bit of enthusiasm given that he had suddenly discovered a new level of anxiety. It was nothing short of amazing how that sort of thing could spur a man on to feats of strength and agility heretofore unexperienced.

  He stopped in front of his half brothers.

  “Where is she?”

  Guy looked at him in surprise. “Who?”

  “The wench!”

  Joscelin put his hand on Gervase’s arm, no doubt to soothe him. “She’s in your solar, of course, where you commanded she stay.”

  Gervase shook off his brother’s arm. “And you aren’t there watching over her?”

  “Ger, she’s perfectly capable—”

  “I commanded that someone stay with her!”

  Guy looked at him as if he’d never seen him before. “But Lucien is there—”

  “Lucien is a useless child!” Gervase bellowed. He shoved his finger in his next youngest brother’s face. “Go stand guard in front of that door and do not move. Joscelin, you come with me.”

  “I don’t know that I want to,” Joscelin began.

  “And I don’t give a damn what you want. Bring your sword!”

  Joscelin trotted along after him. Well, Joscelin walked alongside him at a pace better suited to a stately promenade that would have suited the queen mother’s vanity, but at least he had come along.

  Gervase dismissed his guardsmen along the way, sending them to the proper lists, then gained his private garden. He waited until he had a modicum of privacy before he whirled on his younger brother.

  “Do you know?”

  Joscelin blinked. “Know what?”

  “Who she is!” Gervase hissed.

  Joscelin clasped his hands behind his back. “Ger, I’m not sure I understand—”

  “Of course you understand, you cretin,” Gervase snarled.

  Joscelin looked at him coolly. “I can outrun you, you know, in your current state. If you would like me to prove the like, by all means continue to speak to me in that manner.”

  Gervase drew his sword. Unfortunately, it was damned heavy, his right hand was useless, and his leg like a jelly beneath him. The only reason he didn’t go down to his knees in the lavender was because Joscelin caught him and steadied him.

  Which he didn’t deserve.

  Joscelin took his sword, stabbed it into a flower bed, then slung his arm around Gervase’s shoulders and led him over to a bench in front of a small pond full of fish Gervase was convinced Cook kept only for the cats. He sat because he simply couldn’t stand any longer. He rubbed his good hand over his face, sighed deeply, then looked at his brother.

  “I apologize.”

  “Of course you do,” Joscelin said with a faint smile.

  “Why you endure me, I don’t know.”

  “Oh, nay,” Joscelin said with a half laugh. “You’ll not wring any maudlin sentiments out of me today. I tolerate your foul humors and sorry self because you taught me everything I know about chivalry, pretending to drink while not imbibing, and protecting my poor virtue while appearing to bed every eligible miss in any given place.”

  “And the ones beyond your reach as well.”

  “Aye, that, too,” Joscelin agreed. He leaned forward with his elbows on his knees, then shot Gervase a look. “You’ll recover your former strength.”

  “I wish I had your hope.”

  “You didn’t puke when you came home today. That’s progress.”

  “I didn’t puke because terror has lodged in my belly and insisted on my full attention.”

  “Terror? You?” Joscelin smiled. “Surely not.”

  Gervase sighed deeply. “Who is she?”

  “Who do you think she is?”

  “Isabelle de Piaget.”

  Joscelin’s smile deepened. “Did you divine that all on your own, or did you have help?”

  Gervase would have tossed off a casual remark, but the truth was, he was afraid if he opened his mouth, he might just puke up what he’d managed to get down earlier in the day. “I met a lad in the village who claimed to be her fiancé—or, rather, wished he could claim to be her fiancé. He informed me in trembling tones that she had been traveling to France in the disguise of a lad when she had been caught in a storm and lost at sea.”

  “Interesting.”

  “Isn’t it, though?” Gervase asked sourly. “And how odd that I should find not a fortnight ago a bedraggled lad who turned out to be a woman with no memories and no name.”

  “Odd, indeed.”

  Gervase shivered in spite of himself. “I’m afraid to even think her name, much less say it aloud, lest I draw her father’s attention my way from his perch on that damned coast in England’s barren north.”

  “What a coward you are, brother,” Joscelin said with a twinkle in his eye. “It isn’t as if Lord Rhys will be examining the blisters on her hands, or ask where you’ve been having her sleep, or wonder why it was you were too stupid to recognize a woman of breeding when you saw her.”

  “And you did?”

  “Oh, I knew the moment I clapped eyes on her, but I also saw her sister at Beauvois several years ago. Isabelle wasn’t with her, though I’m not sure why not. She and Amanda are mirrors of each other, though Amanda’s tongue is much sharper.”

  “I don’t suppose you would go to Beauvois and give them the tidings, would you?”

  “Are you daft?” Joscelin said, wide-eyed. “And have Lord Nicholas run me through? Nay, brother, I’ll leave you that pleasure.”

  “Hell.”

  “Probably.”

  Gervase stared grimly out over his garden, noting the first hints of green amongst the ruin winter had brought. He contemplated where he might like to be buried, though he found the thought less appealing than he might have at another time. What he wanted to do was to go inside, find that stunning Isabelle de Piaget, go down on his knees, and beg her to stay a bit longer until at least the blisters on her hands
had disappeared.

  Or until she might be able to look at him with something besides disdain and irritation.

  Perhaps even until she regained her memories . . .

  He looked at his brother and found himself experiencing a surge of good cheer. “I can’t send her home yet.”

  Joscelin blinked in surprise. “Why not?”

  “Because she’s still missing her memories. The shock would be too great. She might return home and find her family nothing but strangers. Ask yourself what kind of man would leave a rare flower of that sort in a spot exposed to too much wind and rain.”

  “You’re hopeless,” Joscelin said with a smile.

  “Chivalrous,” Gervase corrected him. “I have no choice but to keep her here until she knows who she is.”

  “Hemming your sheets while she bides her time?”

  “I’m not having her scrub my floors,” Gervase pointed out.

  “Ger—”

  “Of course not hemming my sheets!” He took a deep breath. “I will shower her with luxuries, speak to her in dulcet tones, ply the lute with my crippled fingers until she begs me to stop. What else?”

  “You could tell her you know who she is.”

  Gervase shook his head. “Again, too much shock to a woman’s delicate humors is never good.”

  “Lord Rhys is going to murder you,” Joscelin said thoughtfully. “But if I murder Guy at the same time, then I inherit the title. If I’m exceptionally clever, I might convince our lovely guest to look at me instead of you.” He smiled happily. “Life has a way of rewarding lads with good hearts, don’t you think?”

  Gervase pointed back to the hall. “Go.”

  Joscelin rose, rubbing his hands together. “I’m off to plot your demise—nay, that’s already seen to. I’ll go plot Guy’s demise—”

  “Go!”

  Joscelin went. Unfortunately, cheerful thoughts went with him until Gervase found himself with only his own black thoughts to contemplate—and they were very dark thoughts indeed. The end of his life was obviously rapidly approaching, so perhaps the best thing he could do was make an attempt at hoisting a sword so he might stave it off a bit longer.