by Lynn Kurland
“What did Lord Gervase do away from home?” Isabelle asked.
“Tourneyed, for the most part,” Cook said. “I think the only one who bested him with the lance was some foul Englishman—de Piaget, I think was his name—but given that they traded victories evenly, I suppose neither lad’s pride was wounded overmuch.”
Isabelle could only imagine. Obviously there were a few things she was going to have to discuss with her brothers at some point.
“Lord Joscelin benefitted greatly from his brother’s company. Lord Gervase saw him knighted and outfitted in lavish fashion, then they spent several years traveling wherever they were welcome and many places where they weren’t at first but left crowned with laurels.”
“And the accident?” Isabelle asked carefully.
Cook shrugged. “I was away at the time, so I’ve little knowledge of the particulars. You might ask Lord Gervase. I can say that the damage was to more than his body. He was the most sought-after lad in France, endlessly invited to court where he was allowed to cross over even into the king’s bedchamber for parleys. And then . . . ”
Isabelle didn’t have to hear more. She was tempted to weep as it was.
“It took him three months before his leg healed well enough for him to stand,” Cook finished. “I don’t think it healed very well, but what do I know? It isn’t as if it can be broken again and remended. I’m not sure he’ll ever be the same, though.” She shook her head. “It cost him much.”
Isabelle finished her ale and looked at Cook. “Thank you,” she said quietly. “I appreciate the tale.”
“You’ll take care of him, won’t you?” Cook asked.
“I’ll do what I can.”
Cook studied her for a moment or two. “You aren’t a servant, are you?”
“What else would I be?”
Cook only smiled.
Isabelle smiled in return. “I still don’t know why I’m here, but I suppose that will come to me in time.”
“I imagine so. Until then, it looks as if Lord Gervase at least intends to keep you safe—Adele, the stew’s burning!”
Isabelle left the cook to her business and left the kitchens with an entirely different impression of things than she’d had before.
She paused in the great hall and considered again her plans. The lads were obviously still outside, no doubt diligently hunting for useful leaves. Her family would soon know where she was and what she was doing. That left her free for the morning to see if she might be of some use to the lord of the hall.
She walked toward the front door only to find that she had her two accustomed shadows trailing after her. Obviously they had been released from their duties in the cesspit. She left the hall, stopped, then turned and looked at them.
“I’m so sorry,” she said quietly.
They shook their heads as one.
“Was it terrible?”
Sir Denis cleared his throat. “Sir Aubert is a very skilled warrior.”
“How long were you in the lists with him?”
“All day,” Sir Lucas admitted.
“Did he hurt you?”
“No more than we deserved.”
She supposed a pair of black eyes, what looked to be one broken nose, and stiffness in them both was answer enough to that.
“I won’t leave you behind again,” she promised.
“Nay, lady, you won’t,” Sir Denis said firmly. Then he made her a little bow. “Begging your pardon, of course, for speaking freely.”
She smiled. “No need.” She paused. “I was thinking to visit His Grace’s healer.”
“We’ll escort you there.”
She had the feeling they would. She found herself flanked by them, which was actually quite convenient given that she wasn’t entirely sure where she was going. They came to a stop in front of a building not far from the stables. She realized as she stood there that she did indeed recognize the place, though the particulars were still shrouded in a bit of a fog. Perhaps that was for the best. Given how long it had taken for her head to stop paining her, not having any memories of her first days at Monsaert was probably a blessing.
She knocked briskly and waited for quite a while before the door was finally opened. A very irritated-looking man with wispy white hair stood there.
“What do you want?” he demanded. “Er, no need for swords, lads.”
Isabelle smiled at her guardsmen, then looked at the healer standing in front of her. She had vague memories of his having cursed her more than once whilst she was abed in his infirmary. She supposed it wouldn’t aid her to remind him of that, so she put on her best smile and hoped that would be enough to distract him. “I was hoping I might trouble you for a few herbs.”
“I don’t keep useless flowers here,” he said shortly.
“I’m not here for flowers,” she said carefully, “I’m here for herbs.”
“And what would a silly wench such as yourself know—”
“Paquier,” a voice said from behind her, “give her what she wants.”
“But, my lord!”
Isabelle turned to find Gervase standing behind her wearing a look that she was rather glad was being directed at the healer and not her. He looked at her, lifted his eyebrows briefly, then returned to glaring at the man in front of her.
“Let her in and give her what she wants,” Gervase said. “Now.”
Master Paquier hesitated, then apparently thought better of it. He retreated back inside his house, grumbling as he did so. Gervase looked at her guardsmen.
“Stay out here, lads. I think I can see to her for the next half hour.”
“Of course, my lord!”
Isabelle would have smiled at their enthusiasm, but her nose hurt just looking at them. She walked into the healer’s quarters, then paused and looked at Gervase.
“I appreciate the aid,” she said. “I don’t think your healer would have allowed me over the threshold on my own merits.”
“He scarce allows me the same,” Gervase said, “but you’re welcome just the same. ’Tis the least I can do given that I almost slept last night for the first time in months.”
“Perhaps we should shout at each other in the garden more often.”
He snorted at her. “It wasn’t the shouting that provided me with such a pleasant night, which I imagine you already know.” He nodded toward his healer. “Go make your demands. I’ll see they are fulfilled.”
She wasn’t about to argue with that. She nodded, then walked as boldly as possible into Master Paquier’s domain. He was obviously not pleased to have her there.
“I can’t imagine you know anything,” he said, looking at her stiffly. “You, a mere serving wench.” He lifted his chin and looked at Gervase. “I have tried everything possible, Your Grace. The body can only heal so much when the injuries are this grave.”
“I am surely not questioning your knowledge,” Isabelle said carefully. “I am only wondering if it might be possible to try a few things I’ve heard about.”
Master Paquier sniffed. “I’ll give you what you want because I obviously have no say in the matter, but don’t expect me to tell you what I’ve already done.”
“I’m sure I wouldn’t understand it even if you did,” Isabelle said. She supposed there was no point in saying that Robin’s wife, Anne, had had her leg crushed by a stallion when she was young and she herself had often been the one to fetch Robin what herbs he’d needed from their healer to attempt to relieve Anne’s pain, even years after the fact. If it could work for Anne, why not for Gervase?
“And don’t blame me if the duke’s time is wasted with your foolishness.”
Isabelle decided that perhaps the first thing that could do with a bit of tidying up was the manners of the men in Gervase’s keep. Then again, as far as they knew, she was nothing more than a servant. Perhaps this was how servants were always treated and she simply hadn’t noticed before. It made her rather grateful that she’d been born to Rhys de Piaget. Then again, her fathe
r wasn’t rude to women, no matter their station.
She glanced at Gervase, but he was simply standing next to the hearth built into one wall of the little house, leaning back against that wall, watching silently. She gave Master Paquier a list of things she wanted, ignored his dire warnings about their lack of efficacy, then turned and looked at Gervase when her basket was filled.
“I’m finished.”
He pushed away from the wall and walked over to open the door for her. She left the house and heard him close the door behind her. She looked up at him. “You slept more easily?”
He nodded solemnly.
“Are you willing to try other things?”
He pursed his lips, but nodded just the same.
“Are you going to say anything today?”
“Not if I have any sense.”
She smiled to herself. Obviously his night of almost sleeping had done him good. She watched him out of the corner of her eye as he walked and supposed he did so with more ease, but what did she know? It had taken Anne years to regain her strength and even now she still suffered when the weather turned foul. Perhaps Gervase would never be entirely whole.
Though for his sake, she hoped he would be.
She walked back with him to the keep and on to his solar. She set the basket of herbs down on his table, paused, then turned to look at him as he sat with a sigh in front of the fire. He was watching her with an expression she couldn’t identify, then he suddenly leapt to his feet. It startled her so badly, she whirled around, wondering what it was he’d seen behind her. But there was nothing. She frowned, then turned back around and looked at him.
“What is it?”
He gestured toward the chair across from him. “You should sit first.”
She blinked. “Why?”
“Because you are a woman.”
At least he had noticed. “Why does that matter when I am a mere serving wench?”
“It matters,” he said with a small bow. “Chivalry is always called for.”
She imagined it wouldn’t serve her to look at him as if he’d lost all his wits, though she was hard pressed not to. Obviously there were things going on that she was missing, but she supposed she might as well sit whilst she was about discovering them. Gervase sat with a wince, straightened his leg out with another flinch, then looked at her.
“How do you fare?”
She wasn’t sure she’d heard him aright. “Did you eat something foul this morning?”
He pursed his lips. “Nay, I most certainly did not. I am attempting to be polite for a change.” He paused, then seemed to gather himself together for another go. “Would you care for a walk in the garden later?”
“A walk,” she said.
“In the garden,” he repeated.
“Why?”
He blew his hair out of his eyes. “Because, again, it seemed like a polite thing to ask,” he said impatiently.
“And you’re feeling polite today?”
He glared at her. “Actually, I was thinking that walking with you in the garden might be a pleasant way to pass the day, but I’m beginning to wonder about the advisability of such an activity.” He pushed himself to his feet, glared at her again, then limped across his chamber. “Sort your weeds, woman,” he threw over his shoulder. “I’m going to go soak my head.”
“If it pleases you, my lord.”
“’Tis simply Gervase,” he said as he wrenched open his solar door, “not my lord.”
He pulled the solar door shut behind him with a bang. Isabelle stared at the door for a moment or two in silence, considered, then shook her head. The man was impossible. Perhaps if she’d been able to successfully compare him to one of her brothers, she could have predicted with some accuracy what he was going to do, but the truth was, he was like none of them. He seemed torn between wanting to be kind to her and wanting to snarl at her.
Frenchmen. What reasonable English lass could fathom their depths?
She rose, then stood with her back against his fire. It felt familiar, that sort of standing. She realized that she could bring to mind scores of times where she had either done the same thing herself or watched her siblings monopolize the fire that way whilst having themselves a goodly think.
That was comforting, somehow.
The door opened suddenly and Gervase poked his head inside. “Are you purposely provoking me?”
“I haven’t been,” she said honestly, “though I could attempt it, if you like.”
“The saints preserve me,” he said with feeling. He hesitated, then looked at her seriously. “I do have business to see to for the next hour or so. Please stay here where I know you’re safe.”
She supposed there was no point in trying to argue with that given her experiences in his hall to that point, so she nodded. He drew his hand back and banged it smartly against the edge of the door, which obviously pained him. She crossed the chamber and caught his hand before he’d finished with a rather impressive string of curses.
The scars on the back of his hand were fierce, that much was true. She ran her finger lightly over them and felt him shiver. She looked at him quickly.
“Hurt?”
“Ah,” he said slowly, “not exactly.”
She smiled. “Surely the touch of a cheeky wench is not so troubling.”
“And yet it is.” He slid her a look. “Have you always been this impertinent?”
“Actually, nay,” she said honestly. “I’ve spent the whole of my life standing in the shadows, saying nothing at all.”
“I can scarce believe that,” he said.
“’Tis the absolute truth. I have several siblings, which makes it difficult to get a word in edgewise in my house.”
He leaned slightly against the doorframe. “Are you going to tell me which house that is? Or how many siblings you have?”
She shrugged. “I can’t remember.”
“Lying is a sin.”
“So is grumbling overmuch.”
“I don’t grumble. I express my opinions in stately, measured tones.”
She turned his hand over and looked at the palm. There were no scars there, but she could see where his muscles were withered. She tried to stretch them out with the gentlest of pressure, but even that set him to swearing. She glanced at him.
“Was that a measured tone?”
“I don’t think so.”
She didn’t think so either. She gave him a quick smile, then turned back to his hand. She worked on it a bit longer, then handed it back to him. “A poultice might help that. You should let me make you one.”
“You are a bossy slip of a girl.”
She pursed her lips. “I’m not afraid of you. I also don’t believe you’re a warlock.”
“Well, there’s a mercy, isn’t there?”
And then he smiled, a grave, self-deprecating sort of smile that left her understanding rather abruptly how it was the female population of France might have been tempted to fall at his feet wherever he went.
She quickly reminded herself that he was rude and bossy and unafraid to lock her in his solar to keep her safe. He was, she realized suddenly, a great deal like her brother Robin only without any of Robin’s, ah, charm. In fact, he was entirely too aggressive and warrior-like. Worse still, all that chivalry was wrapped up in a great deal of Frenchness she was just sure she didn’t care for at all and would only continue to like less and less as time wore on.
She looked up at him to find that he was now scowling at her, which left her wondering if her thoughts had shown on her face. He muttered a curse or two under his breath—in stately, measured tones, it had to be said—then pulled something out of a purse attached to his belt and handed it to her.
It was several rather wilted, pale purple flowers.
“From the garden,” he said grimly. “I don’t think they’re weeds.”
Would the man never cease to leave her off balance? She looked at him in surprise. “What are they called?”
“The vi
llagers call them forget-me-nots.”
Then he backed out into the passageway, frowned at her again, then pulled the door shut in her face.
Isabelle stared at the door for another moment or two, then walked across his solar and set her flowers on the edge of his table. She sat down and stared at it for much longer than she likely should have.
She had never had anyone not of her family give her anything before.
She looked about her with a fair amount of desperation for a distraction. Her herbs were there, sitting innocently in their basket, waiting to be used. She sorted them, but that took far less time than she’d hoped, leaving her with nothing to do but wonder if she might find somewhere else to linger besides Gervase’s solar.
She walked to the door and opened it slightly, wondering who she might find outside.
She could see two men standing several paces away, speaking in low tones. One she didn’t recognize, but the other was definitely Gervase. She knew that because she recognized his voice.
“Want her?” he said shortly. “Are you daft? I want nothing to do with her!”
“But—”
“She’ll regain her memory, then I’ll help her back to her family without hesitation. Anything else is madness.”
Isabelle blinked, then shut the door very quietly. Well, there was no question about how the lord of the castle felt about her, was there? She wasn’t one to indulge in self-pity, but she was growing heartily sick of men who couldn’t remember her name. She was even more tired of men who hadn’t a clue as to who she was but apparently didn’t want her just the same.
No matter what sorts of simple gifts they had just given her.
She ignored the way her feelings were smarting, cursing herself for being pained in the first place. Perhaps her grandmother had a place for her at the abbey. Amanda had considered it, even going so far as to boldly travel to Seakirk Abbey and commit to taking her vows.
Only then, Jackson Kilchurn had come to rescue her.
Isabelle had the feeling Gervase de Seger wouldn’t make the same effort for her.
Chapter 10
Gervase walked up the way from the lists, humming a pleasant melody. The words that usually accompanied that were limited to bloodshed and mayhem, but he chose new, more cheerful words to accompany his tune as he continued on his way. It had been that sort of morning so far.