Dreams of Lilacs

Chapter 9



Isabelle sat at the table under a window in the great hall and tried to concentrate on the lads’ lessons. She had been happily attending to that labor for the past hour, but the passage of time chafed. What she needed to do was find a way to have her message carried to her grandmother before her family became convinced she was dead.

She’d had a very interesting conversation the afternoon before with Joscelin as Gervase had been soaking in a bath with her weeds. Apparently Gervase was convinced she had been shipwrecked and thereafter washed up ashore. There had been a terrible tempest and he had found her wandering along a road, missing one of her boots, and sporting an enormous bump on her head.

She supposed that was why she had lost her memory. It was rather inconvenient, that. She closed her eyes, stretching her mind back into shadows that seemed to fade in and out of a mist she couldn’t sweep away. She sighed and opened her eyes to look up at Gervase’s ceiling above her. She didn’t even remember cutting her hair, much less getting on any ship. The last thing she remembered was standing at the edge of her father’s great hall, watching her family. How she had gone from that to sitting on the edge of Gervase’s great hall, watching nothing at all, was a mystery she had no way to solve.

What she needed to do was talk to Miles. She couldn’t imagine she would have left Artane without having at least discussed her plans with him.

She jumped a little at the sight of Guy striding across the great hall. She patted Pierre on the shoulder.

“Please take your brothers and go find herbs suitable for use on the battlefield,” she said. “Before it rains.”

“But the sun is shining—”

She shot him a look that had him biting back whatever protest he’d been planning on offering. He rose and motioned for his brothers to come with him.

“Let’s go, lads. The master has spoken and we must obey.”

“Do we have to look for herbs?” Yves complained. “I’d rather train with the sword.”

Fabien snorted. “A sword won’t do you any good if you bleed to death, will it? Let’s go look for herbs as she says. Then we’ll train with the sword.”

Isabelle waited impatiently until they had tumbled out of the hall, trying not to look as if she were waiting impatiently for them to leave so she could be about some sort of nefarious business. Guy had already disappeared outside before she managed to bolt across the floor and wrench the door open.

“Lord Guy!”

He turned and looked at her. “Aye, lady?”

“Might I ask a favor?”

“Name it, especially if it includes teaching my older brother manners.”

She walked out down the stairs and out into the courtyard, making certain that her guardsmen were a discreet distance behind her. She smiled. “Your brother is in pain and I’ve found that men in pain can be quite spirited in their conversation. But nay, this is for myself.” She slipped her missive down from her sleeve. She had managed to find wax to use to seal it and had done her best imitation of a mark she hoped her grandmother would recognize, poorly done as it was. “Would it be too much to ask you to find someone trustworthy to carry something for me to Caours Abbey?”

“Caours Abbey,” he echoed in surprise. “For you?”

She had spent the whole of the previous day working out what she would say to any possible question even though the subterfuge didn’t set well with her. She put on her best smile.

“I felt moved to pen a note to the abbess there,” she said, which was actually quite true. She felt moved because she had no idea whether or not her parents were expecting to hear from her and she feared that if she didn’t get word to them, they would be sick with worry. She held the sheaf of parchment out to him, trying to keep it hidden from prying eyes. “Nothing important, of course.”

“Are you thinking to become a nun?” Guy asked in surprise.

She shook her head. “Nothing so dire. I thought perhaps she might know my family and have a way for me to, ah, regain my, um, memories.”

He took the missive and tucked it down the side of his boot. “Consider it done.” He made her a slight bow, then continued on his way to the stables.

She let out a shaky breath. That much was done. Now all she had to do was decide what to do with the time she had remaining before her father descended on Monsaert in a fury. She wasn’t sure who he would be angrier with: Gervase for putting her to work in his kitchen or she herself for daring to leave England without half his guard in tow.

Assuming she had left England on her own.

She went back inside the hall, nodded to her guardsmen, then walked over to a bench set in an alcove. She sank down onto it with a sigh. Whatever else could be said about Gervase and his terrible reputation, the man’s hall was spectacular. Beauvois was luxurious, to be sure, but she was forced to admit that it paled in comparison to Monsaert. Then again, her brother was not a duke, so perhaps with money and power came finer furnishings, painted motifs on the ceilings, and hearths and fireplaces that were more elegant than anything she had ever seen in England. She leaned her head back against the stone and turned to look out over the countryside below her. The soil was rich and the forest in the distance lush. Gervase was fortunate to call such a place his own.

Perhaps whoever had tried to kill him had thought the same thing.

She pushed aside that mystery as one she couldn’t possibly solve. Her most pressing problem was trying to determine what her future should hold. She suspected that her grandmother would insist that she present herself at the abbey, which meant she would have to tell Gervase who she was. Better that, she supposed, than having her father discover that she was loitering in a keep not full of her brothers or cousins. Perhaps it said more about her character than she wanted it to that it was so refreshing to be alone for a bit.

Or, rather, not so much alone, but in a place where no one knew who she was and there wasn’t a clutch of brothers hanging about to tell her what to do.

She certainly wasn’t remaining at Monsaert because of Gervase de Seger. Not only was he thoroughly incapable of dredging up a consistent amount of courtesy, he was French. She wanted the rough and tumble of her brothers, not mincing steps and noses turned up at hearty English fare. She didn’t want to be in a household of lads who were scarcely civilized, she wanted to be . . . well, she wasn’t sure where she wanted to be.

She supposed thinking on what she could do was the easier task. She would stay where she was until she had heard back from her grandmother and until she had helped the lads a bit longer with their studies. It was the charitable thing to do. Her mother would approve. Even, she suspected, her father might approve. After all, of what use were all those years of study and contemplation if she couldn’t apply them somewhere? Where better than with a collection of lads who’d lost their mother?

Besides, now that her grandmother would know she was safe, no one would worry about her. She was free to see to tidying up Monsaert. Once that was done, she would go on to Beauvois where she would—


Where she would return to a life of being the nameless, less- desirable daughter of Rhys de Piaget.

She could hardly bear the thought of it.

She realized she was no longer sitting, but instead pacing through the great hall. When that no longer provided her any comfort, she found herself continuing on to the kitchens. She came to the edge of the chamber and watched the quiet there. The men of the keep had broken their fast long ago and a midday supper was already prepared and simmering over the fire. Cook looked up from her chopping of vegetables and actually smiled.

“Mistress,” she said, waving her in with her spoon. “Come and sit. Adele, fetch her a stool for the worktable!”

The appropriate seat was fetched and Isabelle sat. Cook pushed aside her veg and joined her there, barking for a pair of mugs to be filled with ale and brought immediately. Isabelle couldn’t help but admit that she far preferred being on the less taxing side of the mug.

“The herbs did the master good yestereve.”

Isabelle smiled. “Did they? I’m actually still a little surprised he used them.”

“Aye, well, he can be a bit stubborn, that one.”

Now, here were details she could listen to without argument. “Have you known him his whole life?”

Cook had a hearty swig of her ale. “Nay. I came with the second duchess as part of her household, so he was almost three, perhaps four winters. His mother had been dead but a month or so by then. He missed her terribly, I daresay.”

“Poor lad,” Isabelle murmured.

“Aye, and worse still, his stepmother wasn’t a particularly maternal sort,” Cook said, her lip curling. She shook her head. “And then six more to come from her, of all people. But in spite of that, Lord Gervase was a cheerful, pleasing lad.”

“Lord Gervase?” Isabelle echoed in surprise. “Truly?”

Cook looked at her shrewdly. “Know you nothing of him?”

My brothers complained about the annoyance of tourneying against the oldest lad from Monsaert was almost out of her mouth before she managed to bite her tongue. She hadn’t thought about that before, but it was the truth. She wasn’t entirely sure that that particular lad—and she had to assume that was Gervase—hadn’t been the subject of more than one evening’s discussion. Evidently she’d been lost in thought through most of those discussions for she remembered little about them save her brothers’ grumbles.

“I’m afraid I don’t know much at all,” Isabelle admitted.

“You were a sheltered miss, then.”

“You could say that,” Isabelle agreed. “I would be happy to be enlightened.”

And apparently Cook was more than happy to enlighten her.

“He was sent off to foster at court when a lad, as is custom,” Cook said. “I think it did him good to be away from—” She paused, then took a deep breath. “I’ll just say that it was good for him to be away from here.”

“You don’t need to explain.”

Cook nodded. “I imagine I don’t. Being away is, I daresay, what saved him. The other lads—” She shrugged. “It was harder on them, of course, until they were sent away as well. Master Gervase returned as he was able, because he was the heir and took his responsibilities seriously, though I don’t think it was done gladly. He felt some responsibility toward his brothers, true, but there was little he could do to improve their lots. His father was a good master, but he preferred to sit inside by the fire and hold grand councils rather than . . . ” She shook her head. “He was a good master. I’ll leave it at that, as well. But once Lord Gervase had his spurs, he fetched Lord Joscelin from court and took him under his wing. A pity he couldn’t have taken the other lads, but they were too young. Lord Guy was content to come back home and be petted by his dam.”

“Interesting,” Isabelle murmured. She supposed it was a terrible thing to be gossiping with servants, but given that Gervase thought her nothing more than a servant, perhaps there was no shame in it. “Lord Guy seems happy to sit in the lord’s chair.”

“He is his father’s son,” Cook conceded, “and has more patience for that sort of thing than my lord. To each his own.”

“What did Lord Gervase do away from home?” Isabelle asked.

“Tourneyed, for the most part,” Cook said. “I think the only one who bested him with the lance was some foul Englishman—de Piaget, I think was his name—but given that they traded victories evenly, I suppose neither lad’s pride was wounded overmuch.”

Isabelle could only imagine. Obviously there were a few things she was going to have to discuss with her brothers at some point.

“Lord Joscelin benefitted greatly from his brother’s company. Lord Gervase saw him knighted and outfitted in lavish fashion, then they spent several years traveling wherever they were welcome and many places where they weren’t at first but left crowned with laurels.”

“And the accident?” Isabelle asked carefully.

Cook shrugged. “I was away at the time, so I’ve little knowledge of the particulars. You might ask Lord Gervase. I can say that the damage was to more than his body. He was the most sought-after lad in France, endlessly invited to court where he was allowed to cross over even into the king’s bedchamber for parleys. And then . . . ”

Isabelle didn’t have to hear more. She was tempted to weep as it was.

“It took him three months before his leg healed well enough for him to stand,” Cook finished. “I don’t think it healed very well, but what do I know? It isn’t as if it can be broken again and remended. I’m not sure he’ll ever be the same, though.” She shook her head. “It cost him much.”

Isabelle finished her ale and looked at Cook. “Thank you,” she said quietly. “I appreciate the tale.”

“You’ll take care of him, won’t you?” Cook asked.

“I’ll do what I can.”

Cook studied her for a moment or two. “You aren’t a servant, are you?”

“What else would I be?”

Cook only smiled.

Isabelle smiled in return. “I still don’t know why I’m here, but I suppose that will come to me in time.”

“I imagine so. Until then, it looks as if Lord Gervase at least intends to keep you safe—Adele, the stew’s burning!”

Isabelle left the cook to her business and left the kitchens with an entirely different impression of things than she’d had before.

She paused in the great hall and considered again her plans. The lads were obviously still outside, no doubt diligently hunting for useful leaves. Her family would soon know where she was and what she was doing. That left her free for the morning to see if she might be of some use to the lord of the hall.

She walked toward the front door only to find that she had her two accustomed shadows trailing after her. Obviously they had been released from their duties in the cesspit. She left the hall, stopped, then turned and looked at them.

“I’m so sorry,” she said quietly.

They shook their heads as one.

“Was it terrible?”

Sir Denis cleared his throat. “Sir Aubert is a very skilled warrior.”

“How long were you in the lists with him?”

“All day,” Sir Lucas admitted.

“Did he hurt you?”

“No more than we deserved.”


She supposed a pair of black eyes, what looked to be one broken nose, and stiffness in them both was answer enough to that.

“I won’t leave you behind again,” she promised.

“Nay, lady, you won’t,” Sir Denis said firmly. Then he made her a little bow. “Begging your pardon, of course, for speaking freely.”

She smiled. “No need.” She paused. “I was thinking to visit His Grace’s healer.”

“We’ll escort you there.”

She had the feeling they would. She found herself flanked by them, which was actually quite convenient given that she wasn’t entirely sure where she was going. They came to a stop in front of a building not far from the stables. She realized as she stood there that she did indeed recognize the place, though the particulars were still shrouded in a bit of a fog. Perhaps that was for the best. Given how long it had taken for her head to stop paining her, not having any memories of her first days at Monsaert was probably a blessing.

She knocked briskly and waited for quite a while before the door was finally opened. A very irritated-looking man with wispy white hair stood there.

“What do you want?” he demanded. “Er, no need for swords, lads.”

Isabelle smiled at her guardsmen, then looked at the healer standing in front of her. She had vague memories of his having cursed her more than once whilst she was abed in his infirmary. She supposed it wouldn’t aid her to remind him of that, so she put on her best smile and hoped that would be enough to distract him. “I was hoping I might trouble you for a few herbs.”

“I don’t keep useless flowers here,” he said shortly.

“I’m not here for flowers,” she said carefully, “I’m here for herbs.”

“And what would a silly wench such as yourself know—”

“Paquier,” a voice said from behind her, “give her what she wants.”

“But, my lord!”

Isabelle turned to find Gervase standing behind her wearing a look that she was rather glad was being directed at the healer and not her. He looked at her, lifted his eyebrows briefly, then returned to glaring at the man in front of her.

“Let her in and give her what she wants,” Gervase said. “Now.”

Master Paquier hesitated, then apparently thought better of it. He retreated back inside his house, grumbling as he did so. Gervase looked at her guardsmen.

“Stay out here, lads. I think I can see to her for the next half hour.”

“Of course, my lord!”

Isabelle would have smiled at their enthusiasm, but her nose hurt just looking at them. She walked into the healer’s quarters, then paused and looked at Gervase.

“I appreciate the aid,” she said. “I don’t think your healer would have allowed me over the threshold on my own merits.”

“He scarce allows me the same,” Gervase said, “but you’re welcome just the same. ’Tis the least I can do given that I almost slept last night for the first time in months.”

“Perhaps we should shout at each other in the garden more often.”

He snorted at her. “It wasn’t the shouting that provided me with such a pleasant night, which I imagine you already know.” He nodded toward his healer. “Go make your demands. I’ll see they are fulfilled.”

She wasn’t about to argue with that. She nodded, then walked as boldly as possible into Master Paquier’s domain. He was obviously not pleased to have her there.

“I can’t imagine you know anything,” he said, looking at her stiffly. “You, a mere serving wench.” He lifted his chin and looked at Gervase. “I have tried everything possible, Your Grace. The body can only heal so much when the injuries are this grave.”

“I am surely not questioning your knowledge,” Isabelle said carefully. “I am only wondering if it might be possible to try a few things I’ve heard about.”

Master Paquier sniffed. “I’ll give you what you want because I obviously have no say in the matter, but don’t expect me to tell you what I’ve already done.”

“I’m sure I wouldn’t understand it even if you did,” Isabelle said. She supposed there was no point in saying that Robin’s wife, Anne, had had her leg crushed by a stallion when she was young and she herself had often been the one to fetch Robin what herbs he’d needed from their healer to attempt to relieve Anne’s pain, even years after the fact. If it could work for Anne, why not for Gervase?

“And don’t blame me if the duke’s time is wasted with your foolishness.”

Isabelle decided that perhaps the first thing that could do with a bit of tidying up was the manners of the men in Gervase’s keep. Then again, as far as they knew, she was nothing more than a servant. Perhaps this was how servants were always treated and she simply hadn’t noticed before. It made her rather grateful that she’d been born to Rhys de Piaget. Then again, her father wasn’t rude to women, no matter their station.

She glanced at Gervase, but he was simply standing next to the hearth built into one wall of the little house, leaning back against that wall, watching silently. She gave Master Paquier a list of things she wanted, ignored his dire warnings about their lack of efficacy, then turned and looked at Gervase when her basket was filled.

“I’m finished.”

He pushed away from the wall and walked over to open the door for her. She left the house and heard him close the door behind her. She looked up at him. “You slept more easily?”

He nodded solemnly.

“Are you willing to try other things?”

He pursed his lips, but nodded just the same.

“Are you going to say anything today?”

“Not if I have any sense.”

She smiled to herself. Obviously his night of almost sleeping had done him good. She watched him out of the corner of her eye as he walked and supposed he did so with more ease, but what did she know? It had taken Anne years to regain her strength and even now she still suffered when the weather turned foul. Perhaps Gervase would never be entirely whole.

Though for his sake, she hoped he would be.

She walked back with him to the keep and on to his solar. She set the basket of herbs down on his table, paused, then turned to look at him as he sat with a sigh in front of the fire. He was watching her with an expression she couldn’t identify, then he suddenly leapt to his feet. It startled her so badly, she whirled around, wondering what it was he’d seen behind her. But there was nothing. She frowned, then turned back around and looked at him.

“What is it?”

He gestured toward the chair across from him. “You should sit first.”

She blinked. “Why?”

“Because you are a woman.”

At least he had noticed. “Why does that matter when I am a mere serving wench?”

“It matters,” he said with a small bow. “Chivalry is always called for.”

She imagined it wouldn’t serve her to look at him as if he’d lost all his wits, though she was hard pressed not to. Obviously there were things going on that she was missing, but she supposed she might as well sit whilst she was about discovering them. Gervase sat with a wince, straightened his leg out with another flinch, then looked at her.

“How do you fare?”

She wasn’t sure she’d heard him aright. “Did you eat something foul this morning?”

He pursed his lips. “Nay, I most certainly did not. I am attempting to be polite for a change.” He paused, then seemed to gather himself together for another go. “Would you care for a walk in the garden later?”


“A walk,” she said.

“In the garden,” he repeated.

“Why?”

He blew his hair out of his eyes. “Because, again, it seemed like a polite thing to ask,” he said impatiently.

“And you’re feeling polite today?”

He glared at her. “Actually, I was thinking that walking with you in the garden might be a pleasant way to pass the day, but I’m beginning to wonder about the advisability of such an activity.” He pushed himself to his feet, glared at her again, then limped across his chamber. “Sort your weeds, woman,” he threw over his shoulder. “I’m going to go soak my head.”

“If it pleases you, my lord.”

“’Tis simply Gervase,” he said as he wrenched open his solar door, “not my lord.”

He pulled the solar door shut behind him with a bang. Isabelle stared at the door for a moment or two in silence, considered, then shook her head. The man was impossible. Perhaps if she’d been able to successfully compare him to one of her brothers, she could have predicted with some accuracy what he was going to do, but the truth was, he was like none of them. He seemed torn between wanting to be kind to her and wanting to snarl at her.

Frenchmen. What reasonable English lass could fathom their depths?

She rose, then stood with her back against his fire. It felt familiar, that sort of standing. She realized that she could bring to mind scores of times where she had either done the same thing herself or watched her siblings monopolize the fire that way whilst having themselves a goodly think.

That was comforting, somehow.

The door opened suddenly and Gervase poked his head inside. “Are you purposely provoking me?”

“I haven’t been,” she said honestly, “though I could attempt it, if you like.”

“The saints preserve me,” he said with feeling. He hesitated, then looked at her seriously. “I do have business to see to for the next hour or so. Please stay here where I know you’re safe.”

She supposed there was no point in trying to argue with that given her experiences in his hall to that point, so she nodded. He drew his hand back and banged it smartly against the edge of the door, which obviously pained him. She crossed the chamber and caught his hand before he’d finished with a rather impressive string of curses.

The scars on the back of his hand were fierce, that much was true. She ran her finger lightly over them and felt him shiver. She looked at him quickly.

“Hurt?”

“Ah,” he said slowly, “not exactly.”

She smiled. “Surely the touch of a cheeky wench is not so troubling.”

“And yet it is.” He slid her a look. “Have you always been this impertinent?”

“Actually, nay,” she said honestly. “I’ve spent the whole of my life standing in the shadows, saying nothing at all.”

“I can scarce believe that,” he said.

“’Tis the absolute truth. I have several siblings, which makes it difficult to get a word in edgewise in my house.”

He leaned slightly against the doorframe. “Are you going to tell me which house that is? Or how many siblings you have?”

She shrugged. “I can’t remember.”

“Lying is a sin.”

“So is grumbling overmuch.”

“I don’t grumble. I express my opinions in stately, measured tones.”

She turned his hand over and looked at the palm. There were no scars there, but she could see where his muscles were withered. She tried to stretch them out with the gentlest of pressure, but even that set him to swearing. She glanced at him.

“Was that a measured tone?”

“I don’t think so.”

She didn’t think so either. She gave him a quick smile, then turned back to his hand. She worked on it a bit longer, then handed it back to him. “A poultice might help that. You should let me make you one.”

“You are a bossy slip of a girl.”

She pursed her lips. “I’m not afraid of you. I also don’t believe you’re a warlock.”

“Well, there’s a mercy, isn’t there?”

And then he smiled, a grave, self-deprecating sort of smile that left her understanding rather abruptly how it was the female population of France might have been tempted to fall at his feet wherever he went.

She quickly reminded herself that he was rude and bossy and unafraid to lock her in his solar to keep her safe. He was, she realized suddenly, a great deal like her brother Robin only without any of Robin’s, ah, charm. In fact, he was entirely too aggressive and warrior-like. Worse still, all that chivalry was wrapped up in a great deal of Frenchness she was just sure she didn’t care for at all and would only continue to like less and less as time wore on.

She looked up at him to find that he was now scowling at her, which left her wondering if her thoughts had shown on her face. He muttered a curse or two under his breath—in stately, measured tones, it had to be said—then pulled something out of a purse attached to his belt and handed it to her.

It was several rather wilted, pale purple flowers.

“From the garden,” he said grimly. “I don’t think they’re weeds.”

Would the man never cease to leave her off balance? She looked at him in surprise. “What are they called?”

“The villagers call them forget-me-nots.”

Then he backed out into the passageway, frowned at her again, then pulled the door shut in her face.

Isabelle stared at the door for another moment or two, then walked across his solar and set her flowers on the edge of his table. She sat down and stared at it for much longer than she likely should have.

She had never had anyone not of her family give her anything before.

She looked about her with a fair amount of desperation for a distraction. Her herbs were there, sitting innocently in their basket, waiting to be used. She sorted them, but that took far less time than she’d hoped, leaving her with nothing to do but wonder if she might find somewhere else to linger besides Gervase’s solar.

She walked to the door and opened it slightly, wondering who she might find outside.

She could see two men standing several paces away, speaking in low tones. One she didn’t recognize, but the other was definitely Gervase. She knew that because she recognized his voice.

“Want her?” he said shortly. “Are you daft? I want nothing to do with her!”

“But—”

“She’ll regain her memory, then I’ll help her back to her family without hesitation. Anything else is madness.”

Isabelle blinked, then shut the door very quietly. Well, there was no question about how the lord of the castle felt about her, was there? She wasn’t one to indulge in self-pity, but she was growing heartily sick of men who couldn’t remember her name. She was even more tired of men who hadn’t a clue as to who she was but apparently didn’t want her just the same.

No matter what sorts of simple gifts they had just given her.

She ignored the way her feelings were smarting, cursing herself for being pained in the first place. Perhaps her grandmother had a place for her at the abbey. Amanda had considered it, even going so far as to boldly travel to Seakirk Abbey and commit to taking her vows.

Only then, Jackson Kilchurn had come to rescue her.

Isabelle had the feeling Gervase de Seger wouldn’t make the same effort for her.