Dreams of Lilacs

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 wringing 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.

Would that damned Nicholas de Piaget keep her safe?

He cursed himself and paced a bit more before he found himself sitting at his table, quill in hand. He penned a brief missive to the lord of Beauvois, digging deep for polite phrases that made his teeth ache to write down. He supposed that if he ever wanted to see the delightful Lady Isabelle of Artane again, he had to flatter her brother. What he wanted to do was flatten her brother, but he didn’t think that would aid him any in his desires to have the man look on him with favor.

His hand ached from placing it ungently against Nicholas’s face. His only regret was that he hadn’t heard anything break. The whoreson deserved it for what he’d said to his sister—

Gervase took a deep breath, blew on the ink to dry it, then searched for sealing wax. It took him a moment or two to find it, jumbled as it was in the bottom of his trunk. He pulled it out, then cursed. Someone—Fabien, no doubt—had obviously been nosing about in things that didn’t belong to him. His brother was actually quite clever, but if he colored one more damn thing that should have remained untouched, Gervase was going to take a switch to him. He looked for other uncolored wax, but could find nothing. Red would unfortunately have to do. He rolled his eyes, affixed his seal to the missive, then shoved the tools of composition back into his trunk. Then all that was left was for him to pace a bit more and fret—er, consider in a measured and sensible way his own tangle.

He almost paced into the edge of his open door before he realized his brother Joscelin was standing there, watching him.

“May I come in?” Joscelin asked politely.

“Well, you’re halfway inside as it is,” Gervase said with a curse. “You may as well come fully inside and torment me a bit more.”

Joscelin entered, then shut the door quietly behind him. Gervase would have ignored him, but he had an expression on his face that bespoke serious thought indeed. He waited until his brother had made himself comfortable in front of the fire before he put his hands on the back of his own chair and looked at him.


“What?”

Joscelin looked at him seriously. “What do you remember of the day?”

It took Gervase a moment or two to determine which day Joscelin was talking about. “The day I was wounded?”

“Aye.”

“Nothing but the usual. Why do you ask?”

“Just curious.”

“Curiosity is a dangerous indulgence,” Gervase said. He paced for a moment or two, then found himself back behind his chair. He looked at Joscelin and felt as if he’d never seen him before. Joscelin had a fair hand, didn’t he? What if—

He looked at his brother sharply.

“Why are you asking that now?” he demanded.

Joscelin looked at him in surprise. “Why not?”

“Because ’tis a rather curious thing to wonder, don’t you think?”

Joscelin returned his look for a moment or two blankly, then his mouth fell open. “You can’t believe I did this to you.”

“I’m not sure what to believe.”

Joscelin looked neither offended nor incensed. He looked as if Gervase had taken a blade and stabbed him in the heart. “You cannot believe that. Not in truth.”

Gervase rubbed his hands over his face, prayed for a return of good sense, then walked around to collapse in his chair. “Of course I don’t think you’re responsible.” He sighed deeply. “Why do you ask?”

“I’ve been thinking about Isabelle.”

“Don’t.”

A smile played around Joscelin’s mouth. “Possessive, aren’t you?”

“Actually, I am,” Gervase said shortly. “But go on. You were thinking about Isabelle in a purely brotherly, platonic, safe-for-your-sweet-neck sort of way. And?”

“I wondered if since her memory was so damaged, you might be missing a few things in yours, as well. That led me to wonder just what you might be missing. What’s the last thing you remember?”

Gervase looked off into the fire. The whole thing was shrouded in a bit of fog, actually, with only brief glimpses of events being visible. It had been as the harvest was hard upon them and he had been meeting with his prév?t to assess the state of his fields. He remembered standing there in the crisp autumn chill at sunrise, calculating how much of his winter crop he could possibly get planted before the weather turned nasty. The next thing he remembered was standing at the door of his hall, watching the smoke curl up into the sky from the direction of his stables. He also remembered turning back into a smoke-filled great hall, thinking only that he had to get his people out of the bloody place before it turned into an inferno . . .

He remembered waking in his bed with Master Paquier standing over him, prepared to clout him again to apparently render him senseless so they could splint his leg. He wasn’t entirely sure he hadn’t begged Guy to do the deed to make certain ’twas done properly.

He shrugged. “I remember the same things as before. Fires. Hearing the hall collapse only to realize that was my leg snapping in two.”

Joscelin considered his hands for a moment or two, then looked up. “I wonder, Ger, who it was that shot that bolt at you.”

“And I haven’t?” Gervase asked sharply. “I’ve watched every bloody soul in the keep for the past four months, trying to determine who might want me dead. The list is long. The list that encompasses the rest of France is much longer.”

Joscelin leaned his head back against his chair. “No doubt.”

“Do you want me dead?”

Joscelin smiled. “Occasionally.”

“I was too kind to you in your youth,” Gervase muttered.

“Actually, Ger,” Joscelin said mildly, “you were in truth the only thing that saved me from a life spent endlessly seeking to suck the closest ale spigot dry. ’Tis for damned sure both my mother and our father came close to driving me to it.”

“Flatterer,” Gervase managed.

Joscelin leaned forward with his elbows on his knees. “I’m in earnest about the other. The oddities surrounding your brush with death, I mean. You aren’t the only one who’s been watching the comings and goings inside the hall. Who set the stables on fire? Or the hall? Who was such a poor shot with a bow that he hit your leg instead of your heart? I should have thought you would have attracted a more skilled sort of assassin.”

Gervase looked at his brother darkly. “Your humor is misplaced.”

“But my ability to smell unpleasant stenches is something you continue to appreciate.” His expression was very serious. “I’ve thought about what you said this morning, that Lord Rhys will not give Isabelle to you. It occurred to me that such might be a boon—perhaps he would consider me a less objectionable match for her than you—but then I realized that he won’t give her to either of us if there is a murderer still walking about freely.”

Gervase shut his mouth when he realized it was hanging open. “She doesn’t love you.”

“Perhaps with enough time—nay, stop looking at me that way.” Joscelin laughed a little. “I’m merely provoking you for the sport of it. As for the other, I was just thinking. But that’s what I do too much of, probably.”

Gervase looked at his brother for several minutes in silence, then sighed and rose. He fetched a particular sheaf of parchment out of his trunk, handed it to Joscelin, then resumed his seat. He watched Joscelin read it, then waited for his brother to look at him.

“Well.”

Gervase shrugged lightly. “Apparently that I continue to breathe still annoys someone.”

Joscelin let out a low whistle. “I think perhaps it was worth the trouble to take your lady back to her brother’s hall.”

“I have to agree.”

Joscelin studied the brief missive for another moment or two, then handed it back. “Where did you find this?”

“Amongst the accounts.”

“Here in your solar?” Joscelin asked incredulously.

“So it would seem. A very fair hand, isn’t it?”

Joscelin looked at him sharply. “You don’t think Isabelle wrote this.”

“The thought did cross my mind,” Gervase said slowly, “but it continued on just as quickly. I can imagine her brother having written it, but not her.”

“I think Lord Nicholas would prefer to murder you out in the open where everyone can watch,” Joscelin said easily. “But since I’m not convinced our mystery lad shares that sentiment, perhaps you shouldn’t be off anywhere by yourself.”

“Aye, more than likely,” Gervase said wearily.

“Perhaps the little lads should have a guard as well.”

Gervase found himself slightly more winded than he should have been. “That hadn’t occurred to me.”

“You have other things to think on. I’ll see to the lads.”

Gervase closed his eyes briefly, then looked at his brother. He wasn’t sure when it was that he’d known that that man sitting there was worthy of his trust. A hundred different things over more years than he wanted to count. He took a deep breath.

“Thank you, Joscelin. For more than just this.”

Joscelin smiled. “Don’t be daft. You rescued me at twelve and made me into a man. ’Tis I who am grateful.”

Gervase nodded, because to say anything else would have left him sobbing onto his brother’s neck, maudlin fool that he was. He cleared his throat roughly.

“I’ll solve this quickly.”


“Have plans for a certain miss, do you?”

“Assuredly.”

“Her father will never let you have her,” Joscelin said, stretching lazily. “As I suggested before, I’m a much better choice.”

“You could only hope to aspire to such as she,” Gervase said with a snort. He rubbed his hands together purposefully. “My plan is to first woo her brother with my undeniably charming self, then I’ll turn to the girl herself.”

“Impossible,” Joscelin said.

“My favorite sort of thing.”

“The idea is more impossible than your usual sort of thing.”

Gervase smiled. “Hence my boundless enthusiasm for the thought.”

“I don’t think she likes you at all.”

“I can be irresistible.”

Joscelin laughed a little. “I won’t list the women who would disagree. I’d hate to be the reason you crawled back in your bed and pulled the blankets over your head.”

Gervase would have thrown something at his younger brother, but he had nothing to hand save a missive he supposed would be foolhardy to consign to the fire. He rose, locked it back in his trunk, then resumed his seat. He was fully prepared to close his eyes and have a nap but he was interrupted by a knock on the door. Hoping it wasn’t anyone plotting his death, he called for them to enter. His brother Guy presented himself to him in front of the fire.

“Brother,” he said gravely.

Gervase looked up at Guy who stood there, eminently capable and always willing to do what Gervase hadn’t been able to, for whatever reason. “Joining us for the pleasure of it?” he asked politely.

“I thought I would,” Guy said, just as politely. “Anything interesting on the verbal fire?”

“Nothing much,” Joscelin said, yawning. “Just discussing Gervase’s unsavoury reputation amongst the ladies of the court. What are you about?”

Gervase watched his brothers discussing matters of the estate and wondered about the two of them. It was no secret that Joscelin didn’t care for Guy, but Gervase had never wanted to know the details. He had assumed it was simply the usual animosity that sometimes developed between brothers so close in age. He’d never suffered overmuch from that simply because he’d never truly felt a part of his father’s second family. His stepmother had seen to that—

He rose because his leg was starting to stiffen, not because he wanted to escape thoughts that didn’t serve him. He walked over to his desk and retrieved the missive he’d written to Nicholas of Beauvois. He considered, then walked over and sat back down. He looked up at Guy.

“Would you be interested in a bit of a ride tomorrow?”

“To where?” Guy asked.

“Beauvois.”

Guy raised an eyebrow. “Interesting destination.”

“I’m trying to make certain Nicholas doesn’t send a small army after me for putting his sister to work scrubbing my floors,” Gervase said.

“Which was your idea, Guy,” Joscelin said pointedly, “if I remember it aright.”

“How was I to know who she was?” Guy asked with a shrug. “Terribly pretty for a scullery maid, but not particularly memorable. Besides, we were preparing for Coucy’s arrival. I was distracted.” He held out his hand. “I’ll happily take it for you, brother. I hear Lord Nicholas sets a very fine table.”

“May you have great success in finding yourself seated at it,” Gervase said. “The saints know I’ll never manage it.”

“I might leave now,” Guy said thoughtfully. “There are a few decent inns along the route, I believe.”

Gervase imagined there were and suspected that Guy knew them all. For all his ill-hidden desires to be lord of the manor, he spent an appalling amount of time roaming the countryside. Then again, what else was he to do? He wasn’t particularly fond of the sword and wasn’t interested in tourneying. That left him either loitering at noble tables or loitering at less noble tables. Gervase had little use for either, but he couldn’t expect everyone to have his sensibilities.

He watched Guy leave the solar, then looked at Joscelin. His younger brother was simply regarding him steadily.

“I don’t think I like what you’re thinking.”

Joscelin smiled very faintly. “And what am I thinking?”

“Whatever it is, I don’t like it.”

“Don’t like it, then. But I believe I’ll spend more time guarding your back than usual. And perhaps ’tis best that you leave your Isabelle safely tucked away at her brother’s keep—”

“Damn it,” Gervase said, pushing himself to his feet. “I mean to send something for her.”

Joscelin laughed. “What? A sword to use on you the next time she sees you?”

“Something useful,” Gervase said pointedly. “Something she’ll enjoy.”

“Do you know her well enough to know what she’ll enjoy?”

Gervase slammed the door shut on his brother’s laughter, then supposed Joscelin had a point. He had an idea what he would send, but he had to admit he had no idea whether or not she would enjoy it. He stood in the passageway and dithered, then realized his guardsmen were looking at him as if he’d lost his wits.

“I’m thinking,” he explained.

They said nothing, but he supposed they didn’t have to. He fretted a bit longer about his choice, then sent one of the lads after Guy.

He chose a different direction, but made equal haste.