Dreams of Lilacs

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 saw 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.”

Gervase started to congratulate his second-youngest sibling for his good sense when the import of Yves’s words seeped into what was left of his feeble brain. He looked at his brother. “How long ago?”

Yves shrugged, then looked at Fabien. “A little bit ago, yes?”

“An hour,” Fabien said.

“Don’t be daft,” Pierre said. “’Twas at least a pair of hours. You’ve been dawdling ever since and Isabelle told you to have your sums done when she returned.”

Gervase frowned thoughtfully and left his brothers to their undone work. He walked bodily into Joscelin before he realized his brother was in his way.

“Move,” he said shortly.

Joscelin stepped aside, but unfortunately he wasn’t the only impediment. Gervase didn’t bother with Miles, he simply pushed him out of the way and strode out of his hall.

It took him a very brief time indeed to reach his bedchamber. He found Isabelle’s two new guardsmen—the steely-eyed warriors he’d chosen that morning to guard her at all costs—standing there looking fierce. He nodded to them, then turned and rapped briskly on the door.

There was a muffled noise from inside that alarmed him so greatly, he set aside any hesitation he might have felt at entering a woman’s bedchamber uninvited and simply flung the door open.

A lad sat in front of the fire, tied to a chair.

Gervase whirled on Isabelle’s guardsmen. “Who left this chamber?”

The lad on the right made him a sharp bow. “No one, Your Grace. A serving lad emerged a pair of hours ago, to be sure, but—”

Gervase swore viciously and strode inside the chamber. He pulled the gag out of the lad’s mouth and bent over to glare at him.

“Bested by a girl?” he said shortly.

“She’s vicious!” the lad wailed.

Gervase threw up his hands in despair. Truly there were times he feared for the continuation of the species. “What did she say?”

“Nothing, Your Grace,” the boy said, looking thoroughly unsettled. “She simply clouted me over the head—with a very large rock, I’m sure—while I was adding wood to the fire. The next thing I knew, I was sitting here and she was smudging soot on her cheeks.”

“Did you encourage her to stop?”

“My mouth was full of cloth, Your Grace. I shook my head quite vigorously, but she ignored me.”

Gervase was unsurprised by that. He was surprised, however, by one thing and that was why the hell she had run. Was she suffering from a guilty conscience and had decided that fleeing was her only alternative? If that were the case, then why would she have come back to Monsaert to start with? Much easier to simply hire someone to slip inside his gates and slay him while he was napping.

He folded his arms over his chest and looked into his fire. It took a moment or two, but reason returned. It couldn’t have been Isabelle to pen that missive simply because it made no sense. She hadn’t been there for the first attack on his person, why would she be interested in a second? More to the point, why would she have spent all that time gathering herbs and enduring his snarls and disdain if she’d had any other end in mind but helping him heal?

He leaned over and looked at his serving lad with the most harmless expression he could muster. “Did she say anything,” he began slowly, “anything that would indicate where she intended to go?”

“The stables, Your Grace,” the boy said faintly.

Gervase straightened and cursed as he turned and left his bedchamber. He didn’t bother to chastize the guardsmen standing there. He was stopped at one point in the passageway by Miles and Joscelin—to see them combining forces was truly appalling—but he parted them efficiently and continued on his way.

It occurred to him as he strode toward the stables that he was striding not limping, which he supposed was an almost miraculous improvement. It was a miracle he had Isabelle de Piaget to thank for.

Then why had she run?

“Ger, wait!”

He ignored his brother, collected his captain and another pair of lads on his way, and procured his fastest horse from Master Simon, who only nodded approvingly at the choice. Aubert lifted an eyebrow as they mounted in front of the stables.

“Caours Abbey,” Gervase said.

“She took Philip, you know.” Aubert looked at him knowingly. “The horse, not the young monarch.”

His second-fastest horse. He supposed in that he could credit her with a bit of sense. She had bought herself at least a handful of minutes where he might not have suspected what she was about. That Simon had let her take anything at all was a mystery, but one he had no time to solve at present. Perhaps she had dazzled the man with her smile. The saints only knew he could understand that.

A quarter hour later, he was thundering away from his front gates, grateful that he was able to do it in some manner besides clinging to the saddle and hoping he didn’t fall off.

Two hours, damn it to Hell.


Anything could have happened to her in two hours.