Dreams of Lilacs

Chapter 26



Gervase realized with a sinking feeling that he didn’t care at all for the way the game was playing out. He didn’t like the feeling of being trapped, but he could see that he was coming perilously close to finding himself in just those straits. He considered the battlefield, then moved back until he had both Margaret and Guy in his sights, hopefully drawing them away from Isabelle and her guardsmen. He couldn’t see her any longer, but he supposed that was because Miles and Joscelin were keeping her behind them.

He could see Aubert and Robin leaning negligently against the back wall of the solar and he wasn’t entirely sure that wasn’t Etienne de Piaget over there in the corner, but what did he know? He had assumed his stepmother was responsible for all his ills. At the same time, he had been trying to convince himself that his next youngest brother was a man of honor and virtue. Obviously, his intuition had failed him, and badly. He could only hope Isabelle didn’t pay the price for that.


He listened to Margaret and Guy spend several minutes arguing over who had first had the idea to slay him before he cleared his throat.

“Have we decided yet?” he asked politely. “I’d like to have it out of the way, if you don’t mind. Things to do, you know.”

Guy’s look of loathing was unsurprising but a little startling nonetheless. Gervase supposed that if he had the chance, he would spend a decent amount of time berating himself for his stupidity. If only he’d been a bit more skeptical, he might have spared himself the loss of his father.

Which would have meant the loss of his future with Isabelle, but perhaps that was something he could think about later, as well.

“Feeling poorly, brother?”

Gervase looked at him. “I’m in perfect health, actually. Why do you ask?”

“You look flushed.”

“That comes with knowing that I am master of Monsaert, a vast and fertile holding, and that I will yet live many years to enjoy it all,” Gervase said with a shrug. “’Tis enough to bring a rosy bloom to any lad’s cheeks, wouldn’t you say?”

Guy apparently didn’t have anything else to say. Instead, he moved as quickly as a striking snake. Gervase drew his sword, fully prepared to bloody the floors with his stepbrother’s innards only to realize too late that a sword fight was not what Guy was interested in.

Guy leaped forward and kicked him as hard as possible.

Exactly on the place where his leg had been broken.

His sword clattered to the polished stone under his feet. He was suddenly on his knees without knowing quite how he’d gotten there. The pain was absolutely blinding. He found himself hunched there on all fours, fighting a ferocious battle against a blacknesss that threatened to engulf him.

Guy laughed.

Or perhaps that had been Margaret. Gervase supposed that when listening to voices that belonged with the damned in Hell, perhaps it didn’t matter how closely one identified them. He fumbled for the knife in his boot and managed to get it free in spite of the stars that swirled about his head. He looked up and knew immediately that his knife, no matter how well crafted, was going to be of absolutely no use against the sword he saw coming down toward his witless head.

And then events took a turn he hadn’t expected.

Guy froze. The sword fell from his hands and rang out as it struck the stone, much as Gervase’s blade had done. Gervase sat back on his heels and looked up in surprise at his half brother, then realized what seemed odd.

There was a blade sticking out of Guy’s chest. Just the point, though, as if it hadn’t been so much a sword as a knife.

Gervase could hardly see through the haze of agony that still surrounded him, but he was lucid enough to watch Guy sink to his knees. His brother gurgled something at him, then fell forward. Gervase managed to move out of the way, but that cost him another wave of pain crashing over him. He grasped a heavy chair and simply forced himself to breathe until the wave receded and he thought he could pay heed to what was going on in front of him without being ill.

Isabelle de Piaget was standing there, looking very green.

She looked at him, turned, and then puked.

Down the front of Margaret of Monsaert’s very elegant silk gown.

All hell broke loose, which he supposed was something he should have expected given the day he’d had so far. His step-mother began to shriek, though she was taken in hand by a silver-haired man who invited her to sit down before she did something she would no doubt regret.

He found himself hauled to his feet by Miles and Joscelin. He used their sturdy shoulders to keep himself upright, then glared at Robin who was standing behind his heaving sister, simply watching the goings-on with interest. Gervase gestured toward Isabelle.

“You couldn’t have helped her?” he asked, feeling something that ran quite a bit hotter than mere annoyance.

“Why?” Robin asked, scratching his head. “She had things well in hand. She poached Miles’s knife and went to work. I thought it best to simply stay out of her way.”

But then he lifted his elbow slightly. A long, wicked-looking dagger gleamed in the candlelight. Robin lifted an eyebrow briefly, then resheathed his knife before he knelt down to see if Guy still breathed. Gervase suspected the effort might prove futile.

He thanked his brother and future brother-in-law for their aid, then limped over to gather up his bride-to-be and move her out of Margaret’s long reach. He barely managed to stop Margaret from hitting Isabelle, though he paid the price on his own jaw. Etienne used a bit more force to induce Margaret to resume her seat, which Gervase appreciated. He pulled Isabelle out of the way—behind Robin, thankfully—then realized they weren’t quite as alone as he had thought.

The young king stood at the open doorway, his eyes wide with shock. His mother stood behind him, her hand on his shoulder. Gervase made his monarch and the queen regent a low bow, then realized that Isabelle had dropped a very lovely curtsey in spite of her weeping. He then straightened and exchanged a glance with the young king’s mother.

The queen waved her guards inside. Gervase supposed it said something about his life at present that he found himself vastly relieved the men were simply there to remove Guy from the chamber and offer Margaret an escort out as well, not escort him to the dungeons.

He caught Margaret by the sleeve and stopped her. She looked at him, her visage white.

“I will settle you somewhere,” he said in a low voice. “I suggest you stay there, comfortably out of sight. You won’t enjoy your life otherwise.”

She apparently couldn’t muster even the slightest of replies. She simply pulled her sleeve away from him and followed her escort from the chamber. Gervase had the feeling that settling her wouldn’t be anything he needed to concern himself with anytime soon. If she managed to avoid losing her head, she would be very fortunate, indeed.

He watched the queen exchange a brief word or two with Sir Etienne, which surprised him greatly, but it was over and done with so quickly that he wasn’t sure he hadn’t imagined the entire exchange. It had been that sort of day so far.

He found a chair, sat, and pulled Isabelle down onto his lap. Her weight on his leg almost sent him into oblivion, which had her trying to stand. He shook his head and pulled her back into his arms. He closed his eyes as she wrapped her arms around his neck and wept.

He understood, for a variety of reasons.

“I want to go home,” she said finally.

He looked into her red eyes and felt his heart stop. “Artane?”

She blinked. “I was thinking Monsaert. Unless—”

He shook his head and pulled her close again. “Monsaert,” he said quietly. “But perhaps we’ll stop at the abbey so we can deposit your grandfather back where he belongs.”

“My grandfather?”

“He was hiding behind a screen.” He paused. “I’m not entirely sure he doesn’t know the queen mother.”

“I have questions for him.”

“You aren’t the only one, love,” he said with a weary smile. He closed his eyes, let out a long, slow breath, then listened to her brothers, her grandfather, and his younger brother discuss the events of the day.

He had no stomach for the conversation. Perhaps he would manage to discuss the particulars with Isabelle’s brothers and his at some point, but at the moment it was all he could do to simply think about what he’d learned that day.

Guy de Seger, of all people. The epitome of all knightly virtues, with the possible exception of decent sword skill. Gervase could hardly believe that his brother, his father’s second son, could have been responsible for so much misery. His father’s death, which, now that he thought about it, had reportedly come upon him after a very brief illness. Isabelle’s terrifying journey to France. It was little wonder that Guy had suggested she be put to work in the kitchens. Perhaps he had thought to spirit her away when no one was looking and set her to her predetermined task.


Gervase supposed it would take him quite a while before he was able to think about that without feeling rather ill.

He supposed he could now credit his younger brother with his own wounding. Fortunately, as Joscelin had once pointed out, his would-be assassin hadn’t been a very skilled shot, else he would have been dead, not left with a limp. Perhaps a few more visits to Sister Jeanne would remove even that reminder of what Guy had tried to do to him.

So much pain caused by a pair of souls fixated on things that, in the end, didn’t matter. He shook his head, then pushed his thoughts aside. He closed his eyes, held his lady, and was grateful for the ability to do so.

One test down and only Rhys de Piaget left to face.

He hoped he wasn’t breathing easily prematurely.