Dreams of Lilacs

by Lynn Kurland

Gervase laughed, sounding slightly exasperated. “Does he ever stop talking?”

  “Rarely,” she said. She walked inside his bedchamber, turned to smile at him, then started to shut the door. “Thank you for the fire,” she said. “Gervase.”

  Miles reached in and pulled the door shut. She was tempted to open it back up and clout her brother on the nose, but she didn’t want to disturb anything about the hand Gervase had just kissed. It was odd, she supposed, how little desire she had to immediately find water and wash her skin.

  She sighed and walked over to the bed to turn down the covers. What she needed to do was sleep before she thought too much and got herself into trouble she wouldn’t easily extricate—

  She froze.

  There was a sheaf of parchment there, sticking out just far enough from under her pillow that she saw it. Perhaps that wouldn’t have mattered in a quarter hour for she would have surely felt it when she’d laid her head down. Convenient, that’s what it was, that she should see it before she’d blown out her candle and put herself to bed.

  She pulled it free and read it uneasily.

  To the Lady Isabelle de Piaget,

  I sent you to France for a particular purpose you neglect at your peril. Go to Caours as you were meant to. Know that I am everywhere and see everything.

  Isabelle dropped the sheaf as if it had burned her, then stared in horror at it as it lay on the floor next to Gervase’s bed. She jumped when she realized that someone was knocking on the door. She kicked the sheaf under the bed, then stumbled across the chamber to open the door. She realized as she did so that perhaps that had been one of the more foolish things she’d done over the course of her lifetime. What if the writer of that missive was standing there—

  It wasn’t. It was just Gervase, looking genuinely startled.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  She could hardly bring herself to speak. “Nothing,” she said, her voice sounding thin and sharp. “Why do you ask?”

  “You shrieked.”

  “Bad dream.”

  Gervase seemed to be considering something. She was also considering something, a possibility that she could hardly bring herself to entertain.

  What if Gervase had written that missive?

  She shook her head sharply. She couldn’t imagine that Gervase had been the one to leave that missive where she could find it, but what else was she to think? And if he had sent her the second missive, was it not possible that he had sent the first? The thought of that almost sent her reeling. That would mean he had somehow found out things about her family or sent a spy to ferret out details or paid someone to discover things about ones she loved in order to use those things against them.

  She shook her head, because she simply couldn’t believe it.

  It couldn’t be him. Not that man standing there, looking at her as if he thought she was about to indulge in some sort of feminine display of overwrought emotion.

  “Isabelle, you’re pale,” he said slowly.

  She would have smiled at his using her name, but she was, frankly, too unsettled to. It couldn’t have been Gervase to write that, but how was she to know if it were or not? She’d never seen any of his handwriting to tell the difference. She was tempted to simply return to his solar and paw through his things there, but she supposed that might be a little obvious if he were the one who had written that truly vile note.

  I am everywhere and see everything . . .

  The impulse to simply curl up and weep lasted the space of a single heartbeat before she put her shoulders back and recaptured her good sense. She didn’t have a sword, but she could find a dagger and wield it if she had to. Never mind that Robin had never taught her a damned thing, the lout. She had watched him endlessly and was fairly sure she could imitate his arrogant stance alone if she had to. She could defend herself. Perhaps she could even defend Gervase.

  Assuming he was the one who needed defending.

  “Miles, stay here with her,” Gervase said. “I’ll see that her fire is built up.”

  Isabelle realized that her brother was there in the passageway as well. She put on a smile that she didn’t feel, then produced a yawn she definitely didn’t feel. She didn’t protest when Miles put his arms around her and held on to her.

  “What is it?” he asked quietly.

  “I’ll tell you tomorrow.”

  He frowned at her. In time, both he and Gervase were frowning at her in tandem, as if they had planned their expressions when she hadn’t been attending them. She bid them both a pleasant good night, then locked herself inside and leaned back against the door.

  The sight of a brightly burning fire made her jump and reach for a nonexistent blade. She rolled her eyes. Gervase had told her he was building up the fire in his bedchamber, hadn’t he? She took a deep breath, then deliberately looked about the chamber, in the trunks, under the bed, and behind the privy screen. There was nothing.

  She dug the missive out from under the bed, stuck it under her pillow, then went to the door. Perhaps she would borrow a knife from Miles, who was no doubt standing guard outside her door. She opened the door, then felt something rush through her, but it wasn’t anything pleasant.

  She could hardly believe it was merely the sight of the lord of Monsaert standing there that gave her such a feeling of dread.

  Gervase frowned at her. Was that because he waited for her to react to the missive she’d found or something more sinister?

  “What is it, Isabelle?” he asked quietly.

  She tried to swallow but couldn’t manage it. “Nothing,” she said hoarsely. She realized she was still wearing his cloak, so she took it off and handed it to him. “Thank you, my lord.”

  He took it and folded it over his arm, then looked at her. “Gervase,” he said.

  She nodded. “Of course. Gervase.” She attempted another swallow. “You wouldn’t have an extra knife, would you?”

  He looked at her in surprise. “A knife?”

  “In case I need to cut something.” Like a man’s belly or other useful part of him, she added silently.

  He reached down and pulled a knife free of his boot, then handed it to her slowly. “Will that suit?”

  The haft looked unsettlingly well used, as did the sheath. Obviously Gervase wasn’t shy about doing what needed to be done. She looked at his knife, then at him.

  “You don’t mind?”

  “As long as you don’t intend to use it on me,” he said seriously.

  She attempted a careless laugh, then dropped his knife. She almost clacked heads with him bending down to retrieve it, then straightened and took it back from him. He frowned thoughtfully at her again, then took a step back.

  “I’ll keep watch,” he said, inclining his head.

  “You?” she squeaked. “Surely not all night.”

  He lifted one shoulder in a half shrug. “Perhaps not all night. I do have to face your brother in the lists in the morning.”

  She nodded and considered him. Why would he have waited until she was in his hall before he left her a note if all he’d wanted was for her to go to Caours? Surely he would have sent something instead to Beauvois—

  Perhaps that was what he’d intended to do but the missive had been stolen.

  “Isabelle?”

  “I’m tired,” she said without hesitation. She smiled politely. “Thank you for the knife. I’ll return it.” Eventually, once she was certain he wouldn’t use it on her.

  She backed into her chamber, shut the door, then bolted it. She put her hand on the wood and let out a shaky breath. It wasn’t possible . . .

  She supposed the most sensible thing she could do was escape from the keep whilst she could and run for the abbey. She could garb herself as a nun perhaps before anyone was the wiser, then she could find out who it was who was hunting her.

  Before anyone in her family paid the price.

  She pulled a blanket off the bed, wrapped herself in it, and went to sit in a chair in front of the fire. She
set Gervase’s knife on the little table next to her. She would sit up for as long as she could, on the off chance that someone somehow found his way inside her chamber.

  And then, assuming she lived to see the sunrise, she would run like hell to her grandmother’s abbey and hope she survived the journey.

  She would leave thinking on what would come after that for daylight.

  Chapter 18

  There was something to be said for bathing with weeds.

  Gervase nodded to himself over that fact as he faced a de Piaget lad who had definitely learned which end of his sword to point away from himself. He supposed he had Isabelle’s tender ministrations to thank for the fact that his hand wasn’t cramping as it grasped the hilt of his own sword, but there was certainly no denying that it had been her herbs to give him such ease in his leg. That coupled with Miles taunting him to the point where he was willing to run around the outside of the lists—a bit at a time, it had to be admitted—in order to catch him and kill him and, well, he wasn’t displeased with his progress that morning.

  He looked past the yew hedge to make certain that Isabelle was where he’d left her, sitting in the sunshine and discussing some sort of scholarly business with his two youngest brothers. Actually, there looked to be less discussion of Latin and more instruction in the art of dance, but he couldn’t complain. His brothers adored her.

  He understood.

  He jumped aside as he realized suddenly that Miles was doing less adoring than he was plotting, apparently to rid his sister of a potentially vexatious suitor. He glared at Isabelle’s brother who had come within a finger’s width of shoving his sword through Gervase’s arm. Miles only smiled pleasantly.

  “Dozed off there, did you?”

  “Not quite.”

  Joscelin clapped slowly from where he stood on the edge of the little field. “You’re not on your knees,” he noted. “Well done.”

  Gervase glanced at his brother. “Who? Me or this blight here?”

  Joscelin only laughed, then walked away. Gervase cursed him, then leaned on his sword and allowed himself a brief respite to catch his breath. That he was having to catch his breath from hoisting a sword was somehow far more satisfying than having to catch his breath from merely staggering to the garderobe. Perhaps he would never be what he had been, but at least he might attain the level of a lesser swordsman such as the one in front of him who was looking too damned energetic for his taste.

  He scowled at Miles. “Why are you doing this?”

  “Because I am naturally generous.”

  Gervase suppressed the urge to swear. “The truth, with details.”

  Miles only smiled faintly. “Do I need to give those details?”

  Gervase considered what Miles wasn’t saying, then sighed deeply. “I suppose not. I’m also not sure, honestly, that any of this is worth the effort. Your father will slay me before I manage to begin to flatter him. And for all I know, your sister has no interest in me.”

  “If you cannot tell when a woman fancies you, Your Grace, then there is nothing I can do for you.”

  “Perhaps she hasn’t seen what else is available.”

  “My lord Gervase, she has seen every eligible lad in England and a handful from France,” Miles said dryly. “Of course, your own betrothal might be a bit of a stumbling block, but I imagine you can clear that up with enough effort.”

  “Coucy made it clear I’m no longer on the field, as it were.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Very,” Gervase said. “I sent him on his way, then celebrated with a bottle of wine in my solar.”

  Miles shrugged lightly. “You might want to say something to my sister.”

  “What?” Gervase said with a snort. “That I was betrothed to a woman who decided I wasn’t worthy of her?”

  Miles shrugged. “A wench of little discernment, obviously. My sister is not so foolish. But let it be as you will. I’ll say nothing of it.”

  “There is nothing to say,” Gervase said, “so perhaps we can both let it languish in the past where it belongs.” He looked at the woman in question and was faintly surprised to find Guy standing to the side, watching her teach their younger brothers dance steps that he recognized as the fashion in London.

  How was it he could have gone to England half a dozen times in his life and never encountered that woman there?

  He put up his sword and started toward her.

  “Are we finished?”

  “I believe so,” he tossed over his shoulder without looking at Isabelle’s brother.

  He continued on his way until he was standing next to Guy, watching the spectacle. Brothers had been pressed into service as gels, which they seemed to accept with only a minor amount of resistance. Gervase understood. He thought he might have done the same thing—and more—if Isabelle had asked it of him.

  “Interesting journey to Beauvois?” he asked, turning his head to look at Guy.

  Guy pointed to a blackened eye. “Assaulted on my way there, I’m afraid.”

  “No permanent damage, I hope.”

  “Bruises to body and pride,” Guy said deprecatingly. “I left my lads behind and rode on, leaving them to follow, but came to regret it.” He shrugged. “You know how it is to wish for a bit of peace for thinking.”

  “I must admit I do,” Gervase said with a sigh. He had occasionally left the keep without a guard simply because his arrogance had left him believing that he was invincible. He couldn’t blame Guy for suffering from the same delusion. “But you delivered my missive, I assume.”

  “I lost it, along with my pride,” Guy said. “But I delivered your seeds and your compliments to Lord Nicholas, as requested.”

  “Thank you,” Gervase said.

  “How fortunate that the lady Isabelle seems to have found her way back to our hall.”

  “She’s on her way to Caours,” he said, though once the words were out of his mouth, he regretted them.

  He frowned to himself. That was, of course, ridiculous. His brother had never displayed anything but utter loyalty to first their father, then him. It would have been very easy for Guy to have protested when Gervase found himself back on his feet, but he had turned over the reins of Monsaert without so much as a breath of protest. Why would he not share his most private thoughts with a man who had never been anything but supportive during his darkest hours?

  He shook his head. There was another answer, something that he was missing. Obviously someone still wanted him dead, but who? He supposed it could have been any number of souls to write a single sentence on a scrap of parchment. Surely there was an equal number of souls who might have had the opportunity to tuck that scrap into a stack of parchment pieces lying on his table. Any of his brothers. Any number of servants.

  A woman who had drawn from that stack to aid his brothers with their studies.

  He watched that same woman as she danced with Fabien. She was smiling, but there was something about her smile that looked less than peaceful.

  As if she had something that troubled her.

  He wondered if it was a guilty conscience that plagued her or something else—not enough sleep perhaps or lingering disgust over his having kissed her hand the night before. Was his appeal so lessened, then, that such a thing would cause a woman to look as if she were on the verge of bolting?

  He unbuckled his sword belt and handed it to Miles without looking at him. “Keep that.”

  Miles made no comment, which was likely rather wise given the circumstances. Gervase walked out onto Isabelle’s floor, such as it was, then removed Fabien from his place. He made Isabelle a bow, then looked at her gravely.

  “May I?”

  She seemed to be keeping her gorge down where it belonged through sheer willpower alone. He supposed even his brothers were too appalled by the sight to make any comment, for there was no snickering or ribald jesting about his effect on the lovely demoiselle from Artane.

  “I was teaching them, ah, something my brothers s
aw at, um, court—”

  “I recognized it,” Gervase said, wondering if he would manage to dance even a single pattern with her before she ran. “Let us show my brothers how ’tis done.”

  She nodded uneasily, but followed him through an entire set. He would have pressed her for more, but he wasn’t in the habit of forcing himself on unwilling women.

  That and he had a question or two about what was going through the admittedly lovely head of Lady Isabelle de Piaget.

  He noticed that Sir Aubert was standing just outside the door to the hall and supposed that was excuse enough to leave Isabelle to her work with his siblings. He made her a low bow, excused himself, then retrieved his sword from Miles before he went to speak to his captain.

  Perhaps she was merely anxious to see her grandmother. He could understand that. He hoped she understood that she would not be going with just Miles and whatever guardsmen they had brought along with them.

  As Guy had proved, the wilds of France were not safe for travelers.

  • • •

  Three hours later, he finished with a fairly long list of things he hadn’t wanted to attend to and rewarded himself for his diligence by going to see how the morning of study and dancing had proceeded for his brothers. If he were fortunate enough to find their lovely tutor still sitting with them, he would count that as an added blessing. Perhaps he would challenge her to another afternoon of chess and see what he could add to the list of things she owed him.

  His list being, he had to admit, a bit on the thin side.

  He walked into the great hall to find his brothers clustered at a table pushed under the window. Isabelle, however, was not with them. He walked over to the group, then paused.

  “How goes it, lads?” he asked.

  Yves looked up at him. “Boring,” he said without hesitation. “Isabelle had a headache, Ger, and went to lie down in your bedchamber. She left Fabien in charge and he doesn’t know anything.”

  “Oh,” Gervase said, nonplussed. “I see.”

  “She said she would return, but she hasn’t yet,” Yves said, sounding as if that had been a personal slight. “I wanted to go look for her, but Fabien said I shouldn’t.”