Dreams of Lilacs

Chapter 11



Isabelle sat at Gervase’s table in his solar, surrounded by his brothers in various states of Latin verbal conjugations. Gervase hadn’t given her his list yet, and she hadn’t pressed him for it. He’d been terribly grave the evening before which had led her to believe he was contemplating things she perhaps didn’t want to hear about. All the reasons why he could wait to be rid of her, no doubt. Well, no matter. She was in his hall still because she had no means of getting anywhere else. The price of her journey was the education of his brothers and she could see well enough for herself what needed to be done.

She had nothing to say to Joscelin or Lucien. Joscelin was obviously as educated as she was, though he seemed to have less interest in helping his brothers with their sums as he did sharpening his wits with Lucien over the chessboard. That left her with Pierre, who had told her earlier he preferred swords to sums, and the little lads, Fabien and Yves. They were all three in truly dreadful shape. Their experience with logic was less than she would have expected and they all three struggled with their sums. Obviously no one had yet taken the time to light any fires of scholarly enthusiasm in them.

They were willing students, though, which she supposed was a boon. She could have been saddled with lads such as her own brothers who had been too intelligent by half, learning what they needed rapidly enough to spend more of their time combining ways to escape their lessons than actually sitting through them.

“You should have a name.”

Isabelle looked up from her stitching to find Yves watching her closely. She smiled. “Should I?”

“We cannot go about forever calling you nothing,” he said reasonably. “Can we?”

“I’ll remember my name in time, I’m sure.”

“And you’re not going anywhere, are you?” he asked.

She found herself with not one, but five pairs of eyes on her. She swept all the lads with the best smile she could manage, was very grateful that neither Guy nor Gervase was there to accuse her of lying, and shook her head.

“Not that I know of,” she said. “Where would I go?”

“Let’s go read,” Yves said, bounding up from his brother’s table. “Ger has a trunk full of things, you know.”

“Why don’t you read to me?” Isabelle suggested.

Yves skidded to a halt. “Perhaps we should go to Mass first.”

“I’ve already been this morning,” she said, and she had, suffering under pointed looks from not only the priest but the lord of the manor himself. “You could go, though, if you can talk your brother’s priest into humoring you.”

Lads piled out of the solar. Joscelin was the last to leave, lingering by the door and looking at her with a smile.

“You’ll be safe enough here, I suppose,” he said. “What with your ever-increasing number of guardsmen outside.”

“They are very fierce,” she agreed.

“They don’t dare not be,” Joscelin said. “I think Gervase has threatened all of them with death should they fail to protect you.”

She took a deep breath. “He is kind.”

“I’m not sure that’s the word I would use to describe him,” Joscelin said with a bit of a laugh, “but you can credit him with all sorts of altruistic qualities, if you like.”

She smiled. “You love him well enough, I daresay.”

“I suppose I do,” he agreed. He smiled, then left the solar, pulling the door shut quietly behind him.


Isabelle stood in the middle of the chamber and let silence descend. It was comfortingly difficult to have peace for thinking with a collection of lads making a ruckus around her, but now that they were gone, she found she had more peace than she cared to have.

She walked over to stand in front of Gervase’s fire, then rubbed her arms to ward off a chill she likely shouldn’t have been feeling. There was no reason for it, of course. She was as safe at Monsaert as she had been at Artane, what with the guards Gervase seemed to think she needed. No one had been unkind to her save the Duke of Coucy’s lad who she could only assume was either still loitering in the dungeon or had been sent back on his way, accompanied by a reminder or two of Gervase’s displeasure.

Yet still she was unsettled.

She supposed the blame for some of it could have been laid at the lord of the hall’s feet. He’d given her flowers, then not a quarter hour later insisted that he wanted nothing to do with her. The following day, he had agreed to pay her a ridiculous sum to tutor his brothers, then spent the rest of the day being gravely polite to her. He couldn’t seem to decide if he liked her or loathed her, but perhaps she couldn’t have expected anything else.

Unfortunately, it wasn’t simply the changeable nature of the lord of Monsaert that troubled her. The very fact that she was in France and not at home was baffling. She couldn’t imagine that she had simply decided on an adventure and trotted off without telling anyone. It was possible that she had discussed her plans with Miles, but her plans to do what? She had surely planned to come to France eventually with her mother to be there for the birth of Nicholas and Jennifer’s second child, but if that were the case, why had she cut her hair?

She couldn’t bring herself to think that perhaps her mother had been on the ship that had obviously gone down in the storm.

The door opened suddenly and she reached for the first thing that came to hand. Gervase froze, looked at the fire iron she held, then slowly held up his hands.

“I am unarmed.”

“Is that reassuring?” she asked briskly.

He moved inside, then closed the door behind him. “I daresay it should be.”

“You still have a sword.”

“And you look as if you might do a terrible bit of business with that weapon you have there.”

She turned away to put the fire iron down because she didn’t want to look at him. It was obvious that the man couldn’t decide what to do with her past paying her to school his brothers—something she’d forced him to agree to—which was all good and fine with her. If she had been desirous of a husband, she certainly wouldn’t have picked the man standing near his doorway, watching her gravely.

Certainly not.

“Where are the lads?” he asked.

She nodded to herself over that. He was interested in what she could do for his brothers, no more.

“In the chapel,” she said. “It doesn’t serve them to keep them longer at their tasks than they can bear.”

“Of course,” he said. “As you say.”

She busied herself tidying up the table the boys had been using for their lessons, then sat down in front of the fire and tried to do a bit of stitching. It was difficult to ignore the man who had come to sit across from her, but she was made of very stern stuff, indeed. She also reminded herself with every stitch that he had said he didn’t want to have anything to do with her.

Which was no doubt why he was simply sitting there, watching her.

She finally put her stitching aside and frowned at him. “What do you want?”

He looked at her gravely. “I was thinking perhaps you might enjoy a game of chess. Do you play?”

Why did he care what she might enjoy? “Occasionally,” she said shortly.

Actually, that was a terrible understatement. The only one of her family who didn’t look at the board with the same level of commitment they might have a pitched battle with was her mother—well, and Anne, too. Their mother spent too much time trying to keep them from killing each other whilst about their sport and Anne was too tenderhearted for that sort of ruthlessness. At least when it came to the game, Isabelle had never suffered from either of those impediments.

“Would you indulge me, then?”

She had the feeling her look was one of suspicion, but she couldn’t seem to help herself. “Why?”

“I’m trying to distract you from inventing any more schemes to rid me of my gold.”

She wasn’t sure if he was teasing her or not, and she was actually rather alarmed at his faint, wry smile, so she nodded quickly before he found some other way to baffle her.

He rose and walked over to fetch the little table sporting his pieces. Isabelle put away her stitching to go stop him before he could. She had the feeling dropping those finely made pieces wouldn’t do anything to encourage him to have a good afternoon. Considering what she planned to do to him over the board, she supposed it would be best that he cling to whatever happiness he might have at his disposal.

“I daresay we’ll be more comfortable over here,” she said quickly. “Lest the fire prove to be too much for our humors.”

“As you will, of course.”

He waited for her to sit, then took his own chair. He began to sort pieces on the board, carefully, as if he weren’t quite sure how much aid to offer her. She didn’t stop him. She hadn’t learned to play at Rhys de Piaget’s mighty knee without learning a few less savoury tactics, one of which was always to be underestimated. She frowned over a couple of pieces, blinking owlishly until Gervase sighed lightly and reached over to help her. She waited until he had set up almost the entire board before she looked at him.

“Does black go first?” she asked.

He frowned. “Don’t you know?”

“I’ve forgotten.”

“No matter,” he said quickly, as if he were truly determined to save her pride. “I’ll aid you as you require, of course. And white goes first, if my memory hasn’t failed me.”

“How lovely.” She made a great production of studying her side of the board until he sighed lightly, then she looked at him. “Should we play for something?”

“Play for something?” he echoed.

“Isn’t that what people generally do?” she asked. She almost felt a small bit of regret over using him so ill, but the man had declared quite enthusiastically that he wanted nothing to do with her not a quarter hour after having given her a wilted flower. Perhaps he needed help in clarifying his thinking. Who was she not to offer a trouncing in chess to encourage that?

“I suppose some do,” he conceded. “What would you care to play for?”

“Well, gold seems so . . . what’s the word I’m looking for?”

“Pedestrian?” he suggested.

“Aye,” she said with a smile. “Pedestrian. Wouldn’t you agree?”

He studied her for a moment or two as if he were contemplating things he hadn’t thought to before. “What I would agree with,” he said slowly, “is that you have mercenary tendencies that I’m sure your father wouldn’t approve of. ”

“A girl does what she must to survive,” she said with a shrug. She looked around his solar thoughtfully. “Your keep would be too much trouble, I think,” she mused. “Perhaps something less substantial, but far more troublesome for you personally.”


His eyes narrowed. “Shall I act as a lady’s maid, then?”

“Could you manage that, I wonder.”

The look he shot her almost made her smile.

“Very well,” she said cheerfully, “I’ll have that, then.”

“And what shall I have when I win?” he asked evenly.

“Well, since I’m sure you will win handily, why don’t you suggest something? ”

His expression changed to something quite a bit more serious. “I believe, lady,” he said, “that I would like your forgiveness for having made you scrub my kitchen floors.”

She reminded herself that she did indeed not like him at all. He was going to help her regain her memories, then send her back to her family because he wanted nothing to do with her.

It was hard to remember that when he was looking at her in such a grave, serious way.

“Forgiveness doesn’t sound very interesting,” she managed.

He shrugged. “I thought it best not to frighten you away from the board by revealing my true, unpalatable self. If I told you what I truly wanted, you might tip your king right off.”

She smiled. “Rogue.”

“So I’m told, though the tales are greatly exaggerated.” He nodded toward the board. “Your move.”

She put her finger on her pawn, fourth in from her left. “This one moves forward, does he not?”

“I believe, demoiselle, that he does.”

“Then let’s move him forward a couple of these squares here and see how he fares.”

He considered, then put one of his knights on the front lines.

“Oh, a horse,” she said brightly. “I have one, too. I believe I’ll move one of mine out to join yours.” She smiled. “Is that right?”

“I believe it might be,” he said dryly.

“And you moved one of your—what are these called again?”

“Pawns,” he said with a sigh.

“I like them,” she said. “I’ll move another of mine. And another horse. This is an amusing game.”

He looked at the battlefield she had staked out, then pursed his lips as if he had recently sucked on something that hadn’t tasted particularly good. He shot her a look. “I believe, my lady, that you haven’t been entirely forthright with me about your abilities.”

“Do you think so?” she said smoothly. “Why don’t you carry on with the game and let us see, my lad, if you know the movements of the rest of those things cluttering up your side of the board.”

“‘My lad,’” he echoed with a snort. “You, lady, have an appalling lack of respect for those who have only allowed you to march yourself out so far onto the field that you will find it difficult indeed to defend your major pieces.”

She suppressed the urge to flex her fingers. “Have I? Do show me where I’m failing then.”

He looked at her, then shook his head. And damn him if he didn’t smile as if he knew he had just encountered a battle from which he would not emerge entirely unscathed.

It was a rather quick game, all things considered. She had taken him unawares, which left him scrambling to make up for it and left her with the time to compare him to the men of her family. He was definitely not as deliberate as her sire, who played the game as if every moment had the potential for ending his life, nor was he as rash as Robin, who threw himself into every encounter with either a chortle or an evil grin. She supposed if he reminded her of anyone, it was Nicholas, lethal and elegant about the damage he did. There was, however, something else about Gervase she couldn’t quite lay her finger on. He stared at his king for several long moments, then shook his head before he tipped him over and laughed ruefully.

She wondered if he had laughed every time he’d taken yet another knight for ransom.

“You will not take me by surprise again,” he warned.

“How embarrassing for you that you were taken by surprise in the first place,” she said sweetly.

“I was exercising chivalry, a mistake I will obviously not be making again with you.” He began to push pieces toward her. “Again.”

“After you’ve polished my tack and seen to my wine, I imagine.”

He shot her a look. “We’ll keep a list.”

“I suppose ’tis the least I can do to assuage your badly damaged pride,” she conceded. “What shall we play for this time?”

“Why don’t you play first and find out later?”

“Are you daft?” she asked with a laugh. “I’m not about to give you free rein.”

“Afraid you’ll lose?”

Actually, she was afraid of quite a few things, namely that she might forget that she didn’t care for him at all.

“I am never afraid,” she said. She looked at him quickly. “Not at the board, rather. And aye, I understand very well that you will be showing me exactly as much mercy as I’ve shown you. Fortunately, your black heart is very tender.”

He rolled his eyes. “If you only knew.” He collected her pieces and set them up on his side of the board. “I’ll take white.”

“’Tis more chivalrous to allow the lady to go first.”

“You dare to speak to me of chivalry, you heartless wench?” he asked darkly. “I’ll take white and you’ll have to see what you can do to survive.”

“I suppose ’tis the least I can do to give you the advantage of the first move,” she said thoughtfully. She looked at him. “Wouldn’t you agree? Oh, look. You’ve moved your steed out in front of those . . . what were they called again?”

He opened his mouth to speak, then shut it and glared at her. “Pawns,” he said crisply, “which I can see I’ve been in your hands so far. Don’t assume I’ll allow myself to be put in that position again.”

She smiled, poor fool that she was, because she knew he wasn’t serious with those looks.

She heard his brothers tumble into the solar at one point, but her king was in jeopardy so she didn’t pay them any heed. One thing she could say for Gervase de Seger, he was absolutely relentless. She led him on a merry chase, but in the end he gave her no choice but to surrender. She said a rather foul word, then tipped her king. Joscelin, who had apparently been standing behind her chair, laughed.

“I suppose that’s one way to put it.”

“I’m ahead by one game,” she said, because she thought it needed to be said.

“Aye, because I exercised too much chivalry and allowed you an extra turn at white,” Gervase said loudly.

“You absolutely did not,” she said with a snort. “You allowed me to go first, as you should have. I can’t be responsible for the results of that miscalculation on your part.” She looked up at Joscelin. “He’s rather good, you know.”

“He’s better against flesh and blood,” Joscelin said with a smile. “And perhaps he feared to trample upon your delicate feelings.”

“You weren’t here to witness his snarling at me. There was a distinct lack of chivalry on display during the heat of battle.”

Gervase smiled and rose. “Then allow me to remedy that by escorting you as you go collect my weedy winnings. The garden is likely particularly lovely right now.”

“Since you’ll spend the evening tending my wine,” she said easily, rising as well, “I suppose the least I can do is make it comfortable for you.”


He pursed his lips, then offered her his arm. She took it before she could remind herself that he was neither charming nor pleasant nor anything but a Frenchman who was very full of his own huffings and puffings.

“We’ll come as well,” Yves offered, dashing over and taking her free hand. He looked up at his brother. “It would be the chivalrous thing to do, wouldn’t it, Ger?”

Gervase sighed and nodded. Isabelle considered that as she walked with him down the passageway, through the great hall and out into the back garden. She had recaptured her hands by the time they reached the garden, partly because Yves had deserted her to chase after a brother who had insulted him and it seemed a handy excuse to allow Gervase to have his arm returned to him.

“Yves is a good lad,” she said. She looked up at Gervase. “They are all fine lads.”

“They all could have benefitted from a mother, especially Yves.” He sighed. “I have not been here as often as I should have been. I suppose some of that wasn’t my fault, for I was sent away to foster at court when I was young.”

“At court,” she murmured. “Not a very wholesome environment for a lad, I imagine.”

He laughed a little, but there was no humor in it. “Nay, it wasn’t, and I suppose it was only stupidity that kept me from acquiring the most vulgar and depraved of habits. I was allowed to return home periodically, that I might not forget what my duty was, but once I earned my spurs, I found that I was less . . . ” He seemed to consider his words for quite some time before he finally shrugged. “They were accustomed to having me gone, I daresay.”

Isabelle would have flinched, but she didn’t dare. Her father had sent his sons off to foster, but only for a year or so, and he had always welcomed them home with tears of joy. When Robin and Nicholas had gone away to war, the entire family had mourned their absence daily. She couldn’t imagine not wanting to have her family about her.

“Their loss,” she said without thinking.

He smiled faintly. “You didn’t know me then.”

“How terrible could you have been?”

“I was arrogant.”

“Skilled knights generally are,” she said with a shrug.

“And you would know?”

“I’ve spent more than a maid’s allotment of time listening to tales,” she said without hesitation. “One hears things, you know.”

He snorted. “I imagine one does. As for being home, I daresay it was impossible for me to have pleased my stepmother. She was furious when I took Joscelin with me as my squire.”

“I’m sure he worshipped you.”

Gervase lifted an eyebrow. “I think he was happy to be out in the world.”

“And I suspect you took very good care of him,” she said, “which seems to be a terrible habit you have. So, you gathered up your brother, took him with you to raze the countryside, then what? Vats of gold, scores of women, countless accolades?”

“Aye to the gold, to my surprise aye to the last, but tales of my prowess in the bedchamber are greatly exaggerated.”

“But mine aren’t!” Joscelin called from across the garden.

Gervase shot him a look, then leaned closer. “Don’t believe him. I would hazard a guess he’s still a—”

“Shut up, Ger,” Joscelin warned.

Isabelle smiled in spite of herself. “And you, my lord?”

He pursed his lips. “We’ll not discuss my adventures out in the world and what I want to know is, who was it who was daft enough to begin this conversation?”

“I believe it was you.”

“I’m afraid you’re right.” He clasped his hands behind his back and walked along pathways with her for quite some time until he seemed to come to some sort of decision. He stopped and looked at her. “I need to go on a journey tomorrow.”

She looked at him in surprise. “You don’t sound pleased about it.”

He seemed to be considering his words, which seemed very much unlike him. “I wouldn’t say that,” he said very slowly. He started to speak, then shook his head. “I’m not sure what to say about it.”

“Do you need me to do something whilst you’re away?”

“Nay, I need you to come with me.”

“Do you?” she asked. “Where are we going?”

“I think it best to avoid saying.”

She frowned. “Are you going to toss me into the sea?”

He shook his head solemnly. “Nothing so dire. Just a little ride through the countryside.”

“As you wish, then,” she said, wishing that perhaps she had been a bit more forthcoming when she’d had the chance. It would be just recompense for all her hedging if he carried her off to Caours where her grandmother would immediately identify her. But at the moment, it wasn’t as if she could ask him where exactly he was intending to go because then she would be forced to tell him who she was.

And she simply couldn’t bring herself to do that.

It was madness, but she wanted for one last day not to be who she was. She didn’t want Gervase to look at her and see the nameless youngest daughter of Rhys de Piaget. She wanted him to see her, a woman whose hand he had just taken and tucked again in the crook of his elbow.

Just for one more day.