by Lynn Kurland
“He’s useless.”
“He’s worse than useless,” Miles said in disgust, “but rather useful for small bits of information. I questioned him until he wept, sent him on his way, then spent a se’nnight searching the shore where we thought you might have come to ground. I saw nothing of you, heard nothing of you, found no sign of you save that boot on the strand.” He looked at her seriously. “I had feared you might meet your end in France, but I hadn’t imagined it would come because of your journey here.”
She looked at him in surprise. “What do you mean?”
“Because I know why you came here.”
She felt still descend. It was a profoundly disquieting sensation, one she hoped she would be long in enduring again. “Do you?” she asked, finding that there was hardly any sound to her voice. “Say on, brother.”
“I found a missive in your chamber,” he said, sounding rather unsettled himself. “It instructed you to come to France or the lives of your entire family would be the forfeit. Why you were wanted here is something the missive didn’t say, but I can’t imagine it was for a pleasant purpose.”
She felt the floor rock beneath her feet. The next thing she knew, Miles was squatting in front of her with his hands on her shoulders, holding her upright. She waved him away.
“Air,” she wheezed.
“You fainted.”
“Of course I didn’t faint. I swayed.”
“You almost fell out of your chair.”
“Coincidence,” she said, though the word sounded very garbled to her ears.
She put her hands over her face and simply breathed in and out for several moments in silence before she thought she could manage a decent breath without, well, without fainting. She clutched the arms of her chair to keep herself upright.
“So,” she managed, “this sorry bit of scribbling didn’t say why my presence was requested in France?”
He shifted. “Not in so many words. You were simply ordered to come. If you did not, there were the aforementioned consequences of death at Artane. And elsewhere.”
She started to nod, then realized what he’d said. “Elsewhere?”
“You were told that our grandmother and grandfather here would pay a price, as well.”
She felt the chamber begin to weave again, but waved Miles off before he reached for her. She pulled her legs up into the chair with her and made herself as comfortable as possible. “We have no grandsire living,” she began slowly.
“Your correspondent seems to think so.”
“But Joanna—”
“Wrong country, Iz. Here in France.”
She shook her head, looked at him, then shook her head again. “But Miles, you know as well as I that only Grandmère Mary lives in France.”
“I’ll admit it baffled me,” he said. “And you were instructed to come see her at Caours. Or both her life and our grandfather’s would be in peril.”
She shook her head, because she could hardly believe what she’d heard. “What do I do now?”
“Well, you’re in France. Perhaps you simply wait until this lad who has such interest in your progenitors makes his presence known again.”
She rubbed her arms suddenly. “I don’t consider myself uncourageous,” she said honestly, “but the thought of that is unsettling.”
“Which is the first sensible thing I’ve heard you say in years,” he said without hesitation. “As for the other, I believe I’ll be shadowing you for a bit, if you don’t mind.”
“I can’t think of anything I would mind less,” she said faintly. “I think I would like to see that missive, actually. Perhaps I might recognize the hand. And I have to be honest and say I would like to see it for myself.”
“I’ll fetch it later. For the moment, why don’t you go keep Jennifer company? I believe she has most of Nick’s guard within shouting distance.”
She looked at Miles in surprise. “Is he concerned about her safety?”
“He’s concerned about everything,” Miles said wryly. “This is nothing he can control, so he controls what he can. Which is, I imagine, why not knowing if you were dead or alive was so troubling to him.” He glanced at her. “You couldn’t have sent word from Monsaert?”
She had been halfway to her feet, but she found herself sitting again, quite abruptly. “But I did send word,” she said. “I sent a missive to Grandmère a pair of days ago, telling her I was alive. Gervase’s brother Guy promised to have it taken to her.”
Miles shrugged. “Messages go awry. It would have been a useful thing for her to have known, but I wouldn’t worry about it. I’ll have one of Nick’s lads go—”
“Don’t,” Isabelle said suddenly.
He blinked. “Don’t do what?”
“Don’t say anything,” she said. “I’ll go tell her myself.”
His mouth fell open slightly. “Of course you won’t.”
“Don’t turn into your brother.”
“Brothers,” Miles clarified. “Brothers and your father. And I certainly will turn into them because you absolutely won’t go outside the gates.”
She waved her hand dismissively. “You worry overmuch.”
“Isabelle!”
“What else can I do?” she asked quietly. “Miles, I need to go because that’s what I was told to do. The reason I left England—apparently—was to save my family from the fury of some unknown lad with as yet unstated reasons to want to harm them. Why would I want to remain here and possibly put Jennifer and her new child in danger?”
“Well—”
“Besides, we could go by way of Monsaert. I obviously can’t abandon the boys now. Who will teach them their Latin?”
“The priest?” Miles said pointedly.
“Who will teach them their sums?”
“Lord Gervase?”
“He’s very busy.”
He rose and pulled her to her feet. “I’ll think on it. For the morning, go keep Jennifer company. I’ll find the missive, then show it to you without a score of nosey souls about. And do not disappear out the front gates without me.”
“I wouldn’t leave without you,” she said pleasantly.
“Ha,” he said with a snort. “Don’t think I won’t know exactly where you are at all times.” He shot her a look. “I’m in earnest, Iz. Don’t go without me. If you’re determined to make a little journey to Caours, I will come with you.”
“Very kind.”
“Self-serving,” he corrected. “I will look as if I tried to save you from yourself and thereby escape scrutiny whilst Father focuses all his ire on you.”
She smiled, then linked arms with him as they walked across the great hall. She let him escort her to her sister-in-law’s chamber and was unsurprised to find half a dozen very fierce lads standing guard outside the door. She was allowed entrance, then scooped up her nephew as he ran over to throw himself at her.
She stood there with young James de Piaget in her arms, then leaned against the doorframe and watched the scene before her with a smile.
Nicholas was kneeling in front of his wife, holding her hands in his, concern etched into every line of his face. As irritating and overbearing as he could be, she had to admit that he comported himself very well as a husband. Jennifer looked serenely happy.
She wondered if she would ever have anything like that for herself.
She let Jamie slide down to the floor when he grew weary of her simply standing there, then she slipped along the wall and went to sit on a seat in front of an open window. She looked out over the sea and forced herself to think about what she’d learned that morning.
Someone had wanted her in France badly enough to make terrible threats to have her there. If the missive was to be believed, she was intended to go to Caours and wait until some nefarious sort deigned to give her more details about what he wanted from her.
She didn’t consider herself devoid of all courage, but she had to admit that the thought of someone demanding her presence somewhere was very unsettli
ng. The irony was heavy and rather difficult to ignore. All those years when she’d complained about no one knowing her name and now to find that the one person who knew her name was quite potentially the last person she wanted to meet . . .
She turned away from that thought before it robbed her of any hope of a decent breath anytime soon. She would go to Caours, but first she would make a slight detour and see how Gervase’s brothers fared. It was nothing short of irresponsible to leave them without a tutor. The very least she could do was give them a few lessons to work on so they would have something to do until Gervase could find another solution.
And for all she knew, the lord of the hall had run out of herbs. What else could she do but seek out sufficient supply for him?
Of course, it would have perhaps been a bit more seemly if he’d invited her, but perhaps he had listened too closely to her brother and been frightened off. She wasn’t sure she would have returned to Beauvois anytime soon if she’d been the target of Nicholas’s ire.
She didn’t want to think about the possibility that he had no intention of ever returning to Beauvois to meet Nicholas on the field.
She pushed aside that thought and concentrated on what she could control which was getting herself to Caours as quickly as possible. If she found herself there by way of Monsaert, who could blame her? She would arrange for someone suitable to take over her duties with Gervase’s brothers, then go to Caours and arrange for her family to live more than just the next fortnight.
It was all she could do.
Chapter 14
Gervase dismounted in the stable, handed his reins to a stable boy who only smiled and led his mount off, and marveled that he was still standing and not looking for the nearest place to sit down.
It was progress.
Of course, that progress was with his body only. His humors were so foul, he could scarce bear to be in the same chamber with himself. He supposed there was at least one benefit to that, for his own vileness had driven him outside almost constantly for the whole of the day before and since sunrise during the current sojourn in the hell that was his life.
“Ger?”
He looked up to find Joscelin loitering uselessly in the courtyard. He scowled at his brother.
“What do you want?” he snapped.
Joscelin only looked at him mildly. “I thought to see if you might want to train. We could repair to the garden where you could humiliate me without witnesses. Perhaps that means nothing to you, but I would surely appreciate it.”
Gervase closed his eyes briefly, then nodded and walked with his brother back to what had suddenly become a very gloomy place indeed.
A miserable hour later, he was beginning to suspect that the garden would be better used as a place for someone to bury him. It was a certainty that he wished he could simply lie down and make an end to the agony of using muscles that had lain fallow for far too long.
“How terrible was it?”
Gervase realized his brother had stopped forcing him to defend himself and was simply leaning on his sword and breathing easily, not gasping as if he’d been running for the whole of the morning.
“How terrible was it?” Gervase wheezed. “Must I describe it for you?”
“Since you didn’t seem inclined to divulge details yestereve nor did you allow me to come along to witness the events for myself, I thought you might want to.”
“You thought amiss,” Gervase said, though he supposed the least he could do was entertain his sibling who had taken the time to spar with him that morning. He nodded toward the closest bench. “Let me hobble over there, then I’ll tell all.”
Joscelin followed him, then sat with the ease of a man who hadn’t spent a trio of months in bed, reflecting on the sight of his thigh bone protruding through his flesh. “Do tell.”
Gervase blew out his breath and glanced heavenward. “I suppose the only mercy was that the front door was shut when he left me in the dirt.”
“No windows, then?”
“Oh, several,” Gervase said, shooting him a cross look, “which I imagine you already know. I suspect the entire household was standing with noses pressed up against the glass, breathlessly privy to the spectacle.”
“No doubt,” Joscelin said cheerfully. “Was there spirited speech involved?”
“Aye, when he accused his sister of potentially spending her time languishing in my bed,” Gervase said grimly.
Joscelin’s smile disappeared abruptly. “Surely not. What did you do?”
“I attempted to knock most of his teeth out of his damned head.”
“Well,” Joscelin said, “there is that. Then what? How long did you keep hold of your sword?”
“Sword?” Gervase asked sourly.
“Hmmm,” Joscelin said, rubbing his hand over his mouth as if he strove not to give vent to several supportive curses. “How long did you keep your feet, then?”
“Is it possible to measure such a brief space of time?”
Joscelin winced. “There is no denying that he is formidable.”
“And I am not.”
“Perhaps you forget the outcome of the last time you faced him over blades.”
“I haven’t,” Gervase said, “nor, I suspect, has he. That no doubt led him to feeling a keener need to exact revenge than he might have otherwise. Or it could be simply that he’s a complete ass.”
Joscelin smiled. “There is that.”
Only Gervase knew that at least when it came to the matter of his sister, Nicholas de Piaget had acted in exactly the way he himself would have behaved in similar straits. Indeed, he would have been surprised by anything else. They had thought Isabelle had perished. To have her resurface after having spent three se’nnights in the castle of a man with a less-than-pristine reputation . . . well, Nicholas’s reaction was completely understandable.
Of course, it wasn’t unthinkable that when Nicholas had clapped eyes on him, he had been immediately reminded of a former humiliation or two. Gervase supposed it was unkind to savour the memory of Nicholas de Piaget on his knees in the mud before him, but given that he’d recently been there himself, perhaps a bit of savouring was called for.
He enjoyed those happy memories for a bit before he realized he had no choice but to face the truth. He looked at his brother. “Her sire will never give her to me.”
“Then give up.”
Gervase blinked, then felt something stir within him. It might have been porridge from earlier—Cook had been particularly full of scowls for him over the past two days—or it might have been something else entirely. He frowned.
“Do you think she finds me—”
Joscelin held up his hand. “If you ask me to list your desirable qualities for potential consumption by the incomparable Lady Isabelle of Artane, I will kill myself to spare my poor stomach the ache it would otherwise suffer. I wouldn’t want you—”
“Thank heavens—”
“But I’m also not a wench. How she finds you, I wouldn’t begin to speculate. Perhaps she’s seen all your bad habits and is overjoyed to be rid of your grumbling self.”
“I have no bad habits.”
“Besides a terrible propensity to want everyone around you to be happy with their lot in life and an utter inability to endure insufferable noblemen bent on filling your ears with gossip, nay I suppose you don’t.”
Gervase dragged his sleeve across his forehead. “I have no patience for things our Father delighted in. I would much rather be on the field, allowing my sword to do my talking for me.”
“Then why don’t you do that?”
“And leave the running of the castle to whom?” Gervase asked wearily. “You?”
Joscelin laughed. “Of course not. The thought boggles the mind. I wasn’t suggesting you relinquish the title. I’m merely suggesting that you make it yours instead of endlessly fretting over the fact that you are not Father. Thankfully.”
“I do not endlessly fret.”
“Is that why you’re wringin
g your hands now?”
Gervase realized he was rubbing his right hand with his left, but it hardly had anything to do with fretting. He glared at his brother who only rose and walked away, laughing with more enthusiasm than Gervase appreciated.
He did not fret.
He paced, when necessary, and he wasn’t above drawing back and examining the battlefield, when prudent, but he most certainly didn’t wring his hands like a fretful alewife. Isabelle de Piaget would be fortunate to have a man such as he—
He muttered several strengthening curses under his breath. Isabelle de Piaget was perfection embodied and he would be damned fortunate if she deigned to look at him again.
Which was all the more reason to be about the business of seeing if she couldn’t be convinced to do just that.
He rose, resheathed his sword almost without flinching, then strode back to the house for all of a dozen paces before he had to slow down to catch his breath. Damnation, he was more weary than he should have been. But, as Joscelin would have pointed out, he wasn’t puking from the simple exertion of rising from his bed, so perhaps he would take what victories were his and be grateful for them. He would also be grateful for a hot fire and a decently comfortable chair in front of that fire in which to plan his strategy.
He shut himself inside his solar, happy to see there were no others with the same idea. He then paced—not fretfully—because that’s what he did when about a hearty think.
He found himself standing over his chessboard without really knowing how long he’d been there. The pieces were all in their proper places for the start of battle, but he could see clearly enough the ending of several games from a pair of days before. If Isabelle had learned to play from her father, that didn’t bode particularly well for him unless he took the time and trouble to think two moves ahead of her at all times.
He continued on his path about the chamber and paused by his table. The stack of sheaves was still there, but he had removed and locked in his trunk the offending sheet that had sent him careening into Nicholas of Beauvois’s muddy courtyard. He continued to pace restlessly. He should have been at peace knowing that Isabelle was safe and that he had time and means to determine who it was who wanted him dead, but he found himself less satisfied with the situation than he suspected he would be.