Dreams of Lilacs

Chapter 2



CHATEAU MONSAERT,

FRANCE


Gervase de Seger rode like a demon from Hell.

Or he would have, had he been equal to it. It galled him to the very depths of his soul that all he could manage was a very anemic shuffle on a nag that was better suited to carrying a statuesque and unskilled ladies’ maid. But simply getting atop his ancient, faithful steed had taken the better part of a quarter hour, so he supposed he should simply be grateful for what he was able to accomplish and leave the blistering speed to those better suited to it.

By the saints, he felt old.

He wasn’t, of course, but that didn’t change the fact that he would rather have been in bed than out in the bloody driving rain. It had been raining for the better part of three days, something that likely should have given him pause as he’d made a decision to leave his hall. In fact, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen a storm so fierce. At least he’d been at home in front of a hot fire for most of it. He pitied any lad with the unfortunate necessity of traveling by either land or sea. Why he’d chosen to join the ranks of those poor fools, he surely didn’t know.

He sighed. The truth was, he’d left his comfortable roost because if he’d had to spend another day haunting the inside of a hall so bleak it bothered even him, he would have done damage to someone. To spare any innocents that fate, he had instead reached for his cloak and decided to seek out a bit of air. He’d driven himself out the front door, down the steps, and across the courtyard to the stables where he’d frowned so fiercely that not a word had been spoken by anyone as the oldest horse in his stables had been saddled for him. At least most of the lads had had the good sense to turn away while he’d struggled to get himself up into the saddle. The one lad who’d been fool enough to watch had earned the full force of Gervase’s glare and gone scampering off to no doubt tell more tales about darkness and terror and things that the lord of the hall was apparently responsible for.

He supposed he should have been happy for the addition of unsavoury items to his reputation. His father, after all, had been known as the Griffin of Seger, though perhaps he hadn’t merited a title so fierce. Gervase knew that the cheekier lads in his own employ—as well as a few of the more vocal lads down in the village—had taken to referring to him as the Crow of Monsaert, damn them all to Hell. If he could have repaid them for the slight, he would have. Unfortunately, the best he could do was keep to his castle, let the gloom ooze out the windows and front door to infect the lands surrounding his estate, and hope that it would be enough to keep enemies at bay until he was more himself. If he ever again became what he had once been—

He dragged his hand through his hair and lifted his face to the sky, pushing aside thoughts that didn’t serve him. The rain was freezing, but he relished it. He needed clarity and ’twas a certainty he wouldn’t find it at home. The chaos there was unrelenting and worsening by the day. His brothers were in desperate need of things he hadn’t a clue how to give them, his coffers were emptying at an alarming rate, and he wasn’t healing as quickly as he should have been.

That made it a bit difficult to protect himself against whomever was trying to kill him.

At least he’d managed to get himself to the stables today. He’d shuffled out his front gates a se’nnight ago in an ill-advised attempt to be about his business and the effort had left him practically crawling back to bed for the rest of the day. Today not only had he managed to get himself to the stables, he’d managed to get atop a horse and ride out the front gates. A feat worthy of song, to be sure.

He would have laughed at the absurdity of it all, but he couldn’t. He was a score and eight, but he might as well have been four score and eight for all the strength he had. He should have been at the height of his vigor and prowess. He’d been there a year ago, undefeated in over a decade of jousting, heir to a vast estate, betrothed to the most beautiful woman in all of France. He had occasionally looked at the state of his life and been a little envious of how marvelous it all was. Of course, his father had been dead, which had grieved him, and his mother—or his stepmother, rather—had been without any redeeming qualities at all, which had vexed him, but those were simply things given to him to remind him that life was never perfect. No matter how the rest of his life had spoken to the contrary.

It had all changed in the blink of an eye—

His horse stumbled and caught itself heavily on one leg, almost sending him pitching over the poor beast’s head. He managed to stay in the saddle only because he’d spent every day there since he’d been able to sit up on his own.

Well, save the past four months, but that was time better left rotting in the past where it belonged.

“Help!”

He had to shield his eyes against not only the driving rain but the wind that seemed determined to blind him. He saw finally what would have been not even a ripple in his life before but was now a situation he could honestly say he wanted no part of.

A young lad was being tossed about by a trio of men who it seemed hadn’t been content to merely rob him. One held one of his boots aloft, one held a bag of what Gervase could only assume was coins, and a third satisfied himself with giving the lad a little lesson in the harsh realities of the world. Just the sight of that was enough to leave Gervase wishing he’d stayed at home.

But he was first and foremost a knight, and he could not fail to render aid when called upon.

His steed seemed to feel the same obligation, for he picked himself up into a respectable trot that almost bounced Gervase from the saddle. Perhaps together they made a more terrifying sight than Gervase had supposed, what with him swathed in a black cloak and his horse an enormous black warhorse who had struck fear into enemies a score of years earlier. The ruffians fell back in terror, then ran off with a speed Gervase was forced to admire. They did however, in true ruffian fashion, taunt their victim with the loss of his purse, his dagger, and apparently his only remaining boot as they went. Gervase didn’t bother to give chase. The dagger couldn’t have been worth anything and the purse was likely of no value, either. The lad now kneeling in the mud wore clothing that was serviceable but not overly fine, but no cloak. He was soaked to the skin with his shorn hair plastered to his head. He was also gasping for breath, as if he’d never once taken a decent blow to the gut.

Gervase shook his head. The current crop of lads France produced was disappointing, to say the least.

He was tempted to leave the boy there on the side of the road, but something stopped him. He couldn’t credit it to any altruistic motive, so he decided that he would blame a vile meal and a sour stomach for the fact that he couldn’t bring himself to turn his horse away and head for home. Any desire he’d had to ride over his land had disappeared abruptly at the sight of three lads he could have bested with a steely glance a year ago. He couldn’t bring himself to admit that without the advantage of a horse, he would have been at their mercy. Better to credit the weather for his change of heart.

He scowled down at the boy. “Up on your feet like a man, you woman, or have you no pride?”


In answer, the boy threw up. Well, at least he’d had the manners to turn away and vomit into the weeds. Perhaps the manners of peasants had improved whilst he’d been riding all over France, ridding those peasants’ masters of their horses, armor, and whatever other gear could be used as ransom at tourney. There, that was a pleasant thought. Gervase concentrated on that while he waited for the peasant before him to finish with his business.

The boy wiped his mouth finally with a trembling hand, then looked up.

Gervase almost fell off his horse.

That was, he admitted freely, the most beautiful boy he had ever seen, the poor little bugger. He’d obviously had a rough go of it. Blood from a cut over his eye had coursed down his face and somehow dried in spite of the wet, matching perfectly the new blood dripping down his chin from where he’d obviously just been struck in the mouth. Blackened eyes or dirt? Difficult to tell, but the dazed look in those eyes made Gervase suspect foul play. He might have pitied the boy, if he’d had any pity left.

“Where’s your home?” he asked briskly.

The lad shook his head, then clutched that head quickly in his hands.

Gervase frowned. Perhaps the lad had run away. “Your master’s name, then,” he demanded.

“I . . . I don’t remember.”

Gervase would have pressed him a bit harder, but he didn’t suppose he was going to have any decent answer whilst the lad was again puking up what was left of his guts. He put his hand over his own belly protectively, then decided his hand was of better use over his mouth. He would have stuck his fingers in his ears, but that would have shown an appalling lack of control.

The lad looked up at him with a truly lovely pair of aqua eyes, gurgled, then those eyes rolled back in his head and he pitched forward into the mud, quite obviously senseless.

Damn it anyway.

Gervase cursed viciously. He started to ride on only to realize he was still sitting in the same bloody place, still cursing in a way that would have singed the ears of any of the nuns up the way at the abbey at Caours. He was tempted to ride there and send them out for a rescue, but that would mean leaving the lad facedown in a puddle. By the time the sisters arrived, the boy would have drowned.

Gervase tried to shrug. One less peasant to feed. France would have been better off that way.

He cursed a bit more.

He went so far as to insist his horse walk on, which it did, in a grand, sweeping circle that led him right back to where he’d started from. He looked down at the boy now on his left and cursed a bit more. To say he didn’t want to become involved in another’s misery was understating it badly. The very thought of it sent unpleasant sensations down his spine to curl up quite unhappily in the pit of his stomach. He was quite content to go on with his own miserable life and leave the rescuing to those more inclined.

But if not you, then who?

“Any number of fools,” he ground out.

Unfortunately, Fate seemed not to be listening. And he knew it was Fate nudging him. Fate or another of her vile sisters, Responsibility, Honor, or perhaps even Charity. He had more than a nodding acquaintance with all four of them, even going so far at one point to be quite proud of that fact.

He now only stuck his fingers in his ears to drown out their incessant yapping.

Even singing quite loudly the raunchiest of pub doggerels didn’t drown out that insistent and quite annoying prodding. It just left him looking no doubt as mad as everyone thought him to be. Mad and evil and ruined in both body and mind. He looked up at the sky that was now dark gray in spite of the fact that it was near noon and supposed the weather wasn’t going to improve any. He was already soaked to the skin. His mount’s mane was plastered to his neck and his forelock dripping down the length of his nose. They weren’t going to get any wetter by doing a good deed.

He swung down out of the saddle.

Well, in truth, he fell out of the saddle, twisted on his way down, and landed full upon his victim—er, his peasant in need of a decent rescue, rather. He had one good arm left, but that was of little use when his right leg was so damaged. He did manage to get himself up to his knees, but he had to remain there for far longer than he wanted to think about simply trying to ride out the waves of shattering agony that washed over him. He finally sat back on his heels with a gasp, then shook the boy, hoping he hadn’t wasted a good deed by killing the poor lad.

The boy finally lifted his head.

Unsurprisingly, he began to weep.

Gervase would have clapped his hand to his head, but thought it might be best that at least one of the two players in the current drama not be covered in mud. He would execute the rescue, because he was already in the mud, then he would do the lad a further good turn and instill a bit of manliness in him before he turned him loose. By the saints, the sound issuing forth from the whelp in front of him couldn’t even have been called a decent howl. It was more of a whimper, as if the boy simply couldn’t take any more that day.

Gervase had a particular distaste for whimpers, though he chose not to examine why.

“Can you rise?” he growled.

The noise, blessedly, ceased and the lad nodded.

“What’s your name?”

“I . . . don’t . . . know.”

“Why not?”

The boy looked about him from eyes that were definitely blackened and seemed to be actually a little baffled in general.

“I . . .”

“Whence do you hail?” Gervase asked impatiently.

“Um . . .”

Perfect. No name, no village, and obviously no ability to defend himself. Gervase supposed he could kneel there all day in the rain and the lad still wouldn’t have a decent answer for anything. He suppressed the urge to roll his eyes and instead studied the lad for a moment or two. Perhaps he should at least give the lad a name before they attempted any more noteworthy acts.

“I shall call you Parsival,” Gervase announced. Parsival had been his favorite horse in the days when he’d had a horse worthy of that sort of name.

Parsival the lad didn’t seem as grateful as he should have to be wearing such a grand alias, but Gervase supposed he might grow to appreciate it. He thought perhaps enlightening the lad about the numerous and marvelous qualities of his favorite jousting horse while about the happy work of getting the lad onto the back of his current horse, who was not so marvelous, would keep him from dwelling on how difficult it was to even get himself to his feet, much less himself and someone else to that place. Especially since that someone else was as weak as a gel.

Pitiful. No wonder the boy had fled his home. The looks of disappointment from his sire had likely become too numerous to bear.

Gervase had to pause and simply struggle for breath for a moment or two once he’d managed to stand. That and fight such enormous waves of dizziness that he greatly feared he might have to use Pars’s weeds as a place to deposit his own vile morning meal. He waited until he thought he could remain standing with some success, then reached down and pulled his shivering peasant to his feet.

He then exhausted his descriptions of Parsival the horse, which left him too exhausted himself to do anything but stand there and watch numbly as the boy struggled to get into the saddle. At least the lad had that much skill. Unfortunately, even the effort of watching left him unable to do anything but stand there with his arm over his horse’s withers and lean his head against the patient beast’s neck.

The saints preserve them from anyone who might have been bent on mischief. ’Twas a damned certainty it wouldn’t be him doing the saving.


Walking, after he was able to manage it, was an agony he would have happily foregone, but there was nothing to be done about it. He had made his bed—or his road, rather—and he could only lie in it.

He wasn’t sure how long it was before he saw the stump of a felled tree just off the rutted path he was taking. He hobbled over to it, then stood there for several minutes simply breathing. Once the pain was manageable, he availed himself of the steadiness of his ancient steed and used the poor beast as a means of heaving himself up onto that stump. Without allowing himself to consider the price he would pay, he put his foot in the stirrup and swung himself up behind his barely conscious passenger. The lad had had the good sense to wrap his hands in fistfuls of mane, so perhaps he wasn’t as useless as Gervase had initially feared. The manliness, though, was definitely a problem.

And one he had no intention of solving, to be sure. He took the reins and encouraged his mount forward with a few feeble clicks. He had other things to be seeing to besides a stray he’d found on the side of the road. Important things. Things that required his personal attention.

He made a list, but it wasn’t a very long one. He had long since driven off any friends he might once have possessed and the reputed blackness of his temper had seen to acquaintances and neighbors. In truth, all that was left for him to do was shout at his steward a time or two each se’nnight to make certain the man stayed fixed upon his tasks, then retreat to his bedchamber and cast spells, or torment small animals, or whatever it was the local populace suspected he was doing. They might have boasted that his wings were clipped, but he knew better. If he’d actually presented himself down at the village inn in all his gloomy glory, the whole of the tavern would have soiled themselves and prayed for mercy.

Which was why he remained at home. Altruistic, truly, but that was one of his nobler virtues.

The rain continued to drench him until he was within half a league of his hall. It relented then, only enough for the clouds to huddle about the towers of his castle as if they had secrets to tell the guards there, secrets they didn’t want him to hear. He would have protested, but he supposed the weather was a bit beyond his purview. He settled for scowling just as a matter of principle lest anyone think he was overcome by the sight of his hall in its current state of neglect, and continued on, muttering the odd curse under his breath to keep himself company.

The portcullis was up, which would have infuriated him a year ago. Now, he was merely grateful he didn’t have to waste breath to call to his guardsmen to raise it. He rode through his gates and stopped in front of the stables. A stable boy appeared immediately at his side, trembling so badly he would have spooked Gervase’s horse if the poor tired steed had had any verve left in him. As it was, the beast simply reached out and nosed the boy’s tunic, no doubt looking for some sort of afternoon delicacy. Gervase tossed his reins at the boy, then considered his situation. He could shove his new acquisition off the saddle first, of course, then get down himself in the confusion, but that didn’t seem particularly sporting.

He sighed, then gritted his teeth as he wiggled his boots free of his stirrups. He was more careful that time when he slid to the ground, but still it was breathtakingly painful. He clutched his saddle for several moments, struggling to breathe without gasping, then looked at the prize he’d brought home.

He looked around him for aid and found it in the person of the captain of his guard. Sir Aubert was simply standing there with his arms across his chest, watching silently. Actually, Aubert did everything silently, everything from killing foes to expressing opinions on Gervase’s recovery from the attack that had left him half dead. If Gervase hadn’t known the man for the better part of his life, he might have suspected him of foul deeds. He was quiet yet all the more terrifying because of it. The saints be praised he was trustworthy.

He had obviously been out for a ride himself, which told Gervase that he perhaps hadn’t had as much privacy as he’d thought. Unsurprising, but somewhat comforting, truth be told.

Aubert uncrossed his arms, then walked over to Gervase and made him a slight bow. He looked at the lad draped over the horse’s withers and merely raised an eyebrow.

“A lad in need of a rescue,” Gervase said shortly, “as you likely already know. Dump him in the kitchens.”

Aubert lifted Parsival’s head up by his hair, then froze. Gervase understood. A burden for the poor wretch to be so fair of face. He watched Aubert consider, glance his way briefly, then shrug. The man lifted the lad out of the saddle with surprising gentleness. Gervase would have asked his captain why he didn’t just heave the lad over his shoulder and trot off with him, but perhaps the blood on the lad’s face and the bump on his head that even Gervase could now see gave him pause.

“The wounds were acquired at two different times,” Aubert offered mildly.

“Think you?” Gervase asked.

“One’s crusted over, the others are still bleeding.”

How that man had managed to observe that in such a short time, Gervase couldn’t have said. Then again, he’d won more than one tournament thanks to those unwholesome powers of observation. If Aubert said it was so, he was happy to believe it.

“Take him to the infirmary, then.”

“Until he’s healed?”

“When else? But then dump him in the kitchens. I’ve no need for yet another lad to coddle.”

Aubert nodded, then walked away with his burden. Gervase watched him go for a moment or two, more to give himself a chance to catch his breath than because he was curious as to why his captain, who had absolutely no patience for lads who showed the slightest sign of weakness, would be so carefully carrying a boy who still should have been huddled behind his mother’s skirts.

It was odd, though, wasn’t it?

He shook his head, leaving things he couldn’t fathom to the realm in which they belonged, then turned his attentions to the next monumental task of the day, which was to get himself back inside his great hall where he could collapse in front of the fire and hopefully be fed something decent. He held on to his horse for another moment or two, then nodded to the master of his stables, who had stopped a lad from removing Gervase’s buttress too soon. His faithful steed was led off to his oats and his napping. Gervase wished he could have enjoyed the same attentions.

Help arrived, happily, in the person of a half brother he could tolerate for more than a quarter hour. Heaven knew he had a robust selection to choose from. Joscelin was the second of six lads Gaspard of Monsaert had sired on a woman he’d wed not a month after Gervase’s own dam had perished. Why the pair of them hadn’t managed a girl or two to leaven the loaf, Gervase couldn’t have said. All he knew was that for the past year he’d been mother and father both to that collection of spawn and he hadn’t been equal to the task.

Joscelin said nothing. He simply offered his shoulder as a handy place for Gervase to rest his hand as they started back toward the hall. If he had done less resting and more clutching, Joscelin didn’t seem to notice. Then again, Joscelin tended to listen more than he spoke, a trait Gervase appreciated given the endless babbling of the rest of his siblings.

“Wet out,” was his only comment.

“Very,” Gervase agreed.

Joscelin said nothing more. He merely walked alongside Gervase, as slowly as if he were some species of nobleman who was making a procession through his village and feared someone might miss a particular bit of fine embroidery on his surcoat if he walked too quickly. If he paused now and again to apparently study a bit of stone out of place in the pavement, or dig about something else with his toe, Gervase made no comment. He was too busy being grateful for the chance to pause and catch his breath.


It was truly a miracle he wasn’t dead.

At times, he wondered if he might have been better—

“Who’s the lad?” Joscelin asked.

“Don’t know,” Gervase wheezed, grateful for the distraction. “I came upon him as he was being robbed. It seemed only sporting to at least trot over and see what could be done.”

Joscelin smiled faintly. “Damnable chivalry.”

“Isn’t that the truth,” Gervase said grimly. “Always cropping up when you least expect it.”

Joscelin laughed a little. “I daresay. What are you going to do with him?”

“I have absolutely no idea. Want him?”

“Me? And what would I do with a lad?”

“Make him your squire?”

“Thank you, but nay. I had one, sent especially to me to curry favor with you, who I sent back because he wasn’t yet weaned. I don’t need another useless lad to train.”

Gervase stopped and looked at his younger half brother. “I’m sorry,” he said simply.

“Don’t be daft,” Joscelin said. “You’ll regain your strength and be what you were before. I suspect you’ve spent all this time abed not healing but rather lazing about with an endless succession of handsome wenches.”

That wasn’t even worth a response, so Gervase merely pursed his lips and continued on his way. He heartily wished he had never left the hall that morning, but what else had he been able to do? He had spent three months abed with one leg so broken and the other wrenched about so badly that he’d wished it had been broken. His right arm had been broken as well and his hand crushed under a weight so immense he was surprised he managed to grasp anything at all. The memory of how he’d come by his wounds was sketchy at best and something he didn’t like to dwell on if he could help it.

In truth, he couldn’t quite remember anything past seeing one fire near his stables and more smoke coming from his great hall. He’d set lads to attend to his horseflesh while he’d run back inside the hall to make certain the whole bloody place didn’t go up in flames. He’d hardly been able to see for the smoke, but he’d heard a horrendous crack echo in what had been a very elegant chamber full of fine carving and delicate stonework. He’d thought the roof was caving in only to realize that snapping sound had been his thigh bone. He’d realized that only because his leg had collapsed beneath him and he’d seen the bolt sticking out of his flesh along with what surely couldn’t have been bone. If it hadn’t been for his brothers and his captain finding him to carry him outside—

He took a deep breath and walked back into his hall. He patted Joscelin’s shoulder, then forced himself to make his way across the floor without aid. He heard his younger brothers come tumbling inside from the direction of the kitchens, but he couldn’t bring himself to even attempt to greet them, much less name them. All he knew was that there were six of them and they deserved better than he was able to give them. He cast himself down into a chair in front of the fire and closed his eyes. Joscelin did him the favor of removing the offenders with a promise of training in the lists if the lads fetched their gear quickly. Cries of joy ensued.

Gervase sighed, then opened his eyes. He jumped a little in spite of himself at realizing he wasn’t alone. His next youngest half brother, Guy, was sitting across from him, watching him with a faint smile.

“Nice ride?”

“Delightful,” Gervase muttered. “What news while I was away on my errand of mercy?”

“The Duke of Coucy wants to make a visit.”

Gervase realized his mouth was hanging open, so he shut it with a snap. “You cannot be serious.”

“I believe I am.”

Gervase rubbed his left hand over his face because that was the hand that functioned as it should. “Hell.”

“Not this time. I understand he’s not bringing his eldest daughter.”

The eldest daughter who would allow her father to skewer her on the end of his sword before she would be forced to see what had become of her erstwhile affianced lord. Gervase supposed he wouldn’t have been any happier to see her. That he had once found himself set to wed the harpy—no matter her admittedly staggering beauty—was something that continued to beggar belief. He’d obviously allowed his late father to convince him of the desirability of the match as he’d been fully into his cups.

Of course, those happy tidings of not having to see her again any time soon didn’t do anything to solve the problem of how he was going to feed anyone, much less house them. The greater part of his castle was undamaged, but the great hall still looked a bit scorched about the edges where his servants hadn’t been able to remove the soot. He supposed a tapestry or two or a bit of whitewash would have solved that, but he hadn’t had the heart to see to either.

“He’s only staying one night, if that eases you,” Guy continued. “He wants to see for himself that you’re still alive, I suppose.”

“I can’t imagine why,” Gervase said, sighing deeply. The bloody floors were going to have to be cleaned, at least. “When?”

“In a handful of days, or so I hear.”

Gervase didn’t bother to wonder how it was that Guy heard these sorts of things and he didn’t. ’Twas common knowledge that Guy had been the one to keep things running while Gervase had been abed, trying to keep himself from dying. Perhaps it would have been better—

He blew out his breath. He refused to entertain that thought, no matter how often it clamored for his attention. The hall was his and he would hold it as long as he had breath. He would undo the damage his father had done to it because his grandfather, Abelard of Monsaert, had made him swear an oath he would do so. Never mind that he’d been a green lad of a score and two when he’d put his hands in his grandfather’s and, in a truly subversive act, given his fealty to his grandfather, not his father.

Nay, the hall was his as was the burden of seeing to it and the souls attached to it.

“You’re fortunate to be alive.”

“Tell me something I don’t know,” Gervase said wearily. He looked at his brother. “Send Cook to me, would you? I’d best think about our guests sooner rather than later.”

Guy nodded, then rose and went to do his liege lord’s bidding. Gervase watched him go, then leaned his head back against the chair. No more do-gooding. A single morning of it and now look what he was faced with. It was tempting to simply go back to bed and hope that—

He rolled his eyes, pushed himself out of his chair, and moved to stand with his backside against the fire. He’d healed as much as he was going to heal. It was far past time he ceased coddling himself. He would simply march forward boldly and ignore the things he couldn’t solve at present.

Such as who had tried to kill him.

And why.