by Lynn Kurland
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.
Chapter 3
She woke.
She lay still because she found that even breathing hurt her head. Moving was beyond her, for even the slightest motion left her feeling as if her head were being cleaved in twain. So, instead of inflicting more pain upon herself, she chose to simply lie there and breathe as gingerly as possible.
Time wore on in a particularly uncomfortable way, much like a fever that wouldn’t break no matter how much she willed it to. She wasn’t entirely sure that she didn’t sleep, though her dreams were unpleasant ones full of noise and confusion and fighting a raging storm in the midst of the sea. If she hadn’t been in such pain, she supposed she might have feared she was dead.
She woke finally and realized two things immediately: she had no idea where she was, and, worse still, she had no idea who she was.
She froze, because that’s what a lad in a spot of trouble did.
Where had she heard that before?
Ah, she remembered. It was what her father had always instructed her brothers to do when finding themselves hard up against a clutch of enemies with no easy way to escape. She frowned. She had a father, that much was clear, and apparently brothers as well. It bothered her quite a bit that she couldn’t remember their names, but perhaps those would come to her as well in time. She could see her father’s face . . . and then she couldn’t. She frowned, but supposed that would clear up with time as well.
“I don’t care for this,” a voice said with a huff.
“Be that as it may,” another voice said evenly, “this is what His Grace requires.”
“I am not a tender of sodden orphans who were better sent home to their mothers!”
She wanted to tell the voices that she wasn’t an orphan, that she had a father at least and presumably a mother, but she made the mistake of shifting and the pain in her head was so blinding that all she could do was seek refuge in senselessness.
• • •
The next time she woke, she found she could at least move her head without blinding pain. She had no idea how much time had passed and still couldn’t remember her name, but she thought she might attempt the opening of her eyes without too much trouble. She looked at the ceiling above her and was surprised to find that it was made of rather lovely wood, not thatch. Perhaps she found herself not out in the wilds but in a proper castle, though why that should have made any difference to her, she couldn’t have said.
“I refuse to tend this . . . this creature!”
Another voice responded. She recognized it, which led her to suspect that she’d heard it before, perhaps in her dreams. She didn’t dare attempt to turn her head, so she simply lay there and listened.
“His Grace requires this—and here is his brother to no doubt say as much.”
“Lord Joscelin,” said the first voice, sounding as if it were coming from a throat on the verge of closing up entirely.
“I thought perhaps I would come and see what my brother brought home.”
She decided there was no reason not to at least look to her right and see who stood there. Moving her head was out of the question, but a look, aye, that was possible.
Three men stood there. The one closest to her was the oldest of the lot, his pate covered with wisps of white hair and his face adorned with a ferocious scowl. She scowled back at him, then looked at the second man. He was tall and solemn, wearing a sword. At least he wasn’t scowling at her.
The third man was younger still, and he had no sword. She would have checked for a dagger in his boot, which made her wonder why that thought had occurred to her, but she found she could scarce look at them as they stood there, much less look anywhere else. She took a careful breath.
“Who are you?” she croaked.
The white-haired one drew himself up. “I am Master Paquier,” he said. “I am His Grace’s personal surgeon, so I suggest you accord me the respect due me.”
The third one there, the youngest, drew up a stool next to where she lay and sat down. He seemed the most cheerful of the lot, which was pleasing. He smiled at her in a friendly fashion.
“I am Joscelin—”
“Lord Joscelin,” the man with the sword corrected mildly.
Lord Joscelin shrugged. “Joscelin is enough, I think.” He smiled again. “This canny warrior standing behind me is Sir Aubert. He’s the captain of my brother’s guard.”
She considered that for quite some time. If the man sitting down was a lord and his brother had a guard, then he was obviously a lord himself. She congratulated herself on that sterling piece of logical thinking, then took a few more moments to let her head clear a bit longer.
“Who,” she managed, “is your brother?”
“Gervase de Seger,” Joscelin said. “Do you know him?”
She attempted to put that name with anything useful, but failed. She couldn’t even shake her head, but she did wiggle her fingers in a way she hoped would speak for her.
“I take it not,” Lord Joscelin said.
“I don’t know . . . anything.”
The surgeon made noises of disbelief. “How is it possible that she—”
“He,” Joscelin corrected Master Paquier quickly. “He says he doesn’t know anything.”
She wanted to tell him that she was most certainly not a he, but something stopped her. ’Tis always best to be underestimated. The words washed over her mind like a wave, then receded, leaving her wondering where she’d heard them. If they wanted to think she was a boy, they were welcome to. Perhaps that was for the best and would buy her a bit of safety where admitting to what she was might not. Of course, she knew differently. She also knew her name, which was . . .
On the tip of her tongue, she was certain, but no closer. She frowned, then looked at Joscelin.
“Who is he? Your brother, I mean.”
“The lord of Monsaert,” Joscelin said.
’Tis said Gervase de Seger, the lord of Monsaert, goes about in demon form. Very dangerous . . .
The words came at her from an unknown direction, but washed over her just the same, filling her with terror. She sat up with a gasp, then realized quite suddenly that that had been a very bad idea indeed.
Darkness descended.
• • •
She woke to the feeling of someone shaking her. She pushed the hands away and realized to her surprise that she was able to manage it. She opened her eyes and found that whilst it wasn’t particularly pleasant, at least her head didn’t feel as if she’d been volunteering it as an anvil for the castle’s blacksmith.
She managed to sit up without the world spinning uncontrollably, which she supposed was progress. She put her hands to her head just as a precaution, waited until she thought she could look around herself with success, then opened her eyes and looked at the person standing next to her bed. It was someone she hadn’t seen before, which she had to admit was slightly unnerving.
“What do you want?” she said hoarsely.
The woman—and it was a woman, it appeared—put her hands on her ample hips and glared. “You, in the kitch
ens right now. My lord told me he would give you a se’nnight to recover from that wee knock on your head and then you were mine. Get yourself out of bed, you lazy whelp, and follow me. Important guests have been sighted and I’m short a pair of hands.”
Before she could protest, the woman had ripped aside her coverlet and thrown a pair of boots at her.
“Put those on, now. I’ve no time to waste coddling runaway lads.”
Whatever she was, she was fairly sure she wasn’t a runaway, though what did she know? She wasn’t a lad, that was for certain, but it didn’t seem as if the woman in front of her was interested in that fact. Perhaps the best she could do was do as she’d been ordered to and hopefully investigate her surroundings in the bargain. It was best, when planning an escape, to be familiar with the lay of the land.
She frowned thoughtfully. Her father again, obviously.
Before she could put on her boots, her hands were taken and examined. The woman frowned.
“I don’t think you’ve done a decent day’s labor in your life.”
“That, my good woman, is rather offensive.”
The cook raised her hand, then reconsidered. “I should slap you for your cheek, but I will admit that you look as if you’ve had enough of that recently to suit you.” She took a step back and put her hands on her hips again. “You’ll probably be useless, but I’m in a tight spot. Perhaps you’ll learn quickly.”
There was that. She put on boots that were definitely not hers and had a hole in the sole of one, then stood. She swayed. The cook caught her, which she greatly appreciated. When the stars cleared, she realized the good woman was staring at her intently.
“Lord Gervase bade me take you to the kitchens,” she said with a frown, “and I don’t dare gainsay him, but I can’t imagine what I dare do with you.” She started to speak again, then shook her head. “Wrap that cloak around you and let’s be off. Best not to run afoul of his temper.”
Gervase of Monsaert. She shivered at the very name, though at the moment she was too dizzy to wonder why. She had vague memories of hearing about terrible things he’d done, but she honestly couldn’t bring any of them to mind at present.
She took the cloak she was handed, put it around herself, and followed the cook from where she’d been. The healer’s house, perhaps. She walked with the cook across the courtyard, unsure if she were more surprised by the number of people there or the fact that she was able to walk—mostly—without fainting. She only ventured one look at anything but her feet, but quickly discovered that was a very bad idea indeed. She was immediately on her knees without knowing quite how she’d gotten there.
“Oh, by all the blessed—”
“Allow me, Mistress Jehanne.”
She recognized that voice. It belonged to Joscelin—or, rather, Lord Joscelin. She felt a hand on her head.
“Can you stand?” he asked.
The cook snorted loudly. “And what good does it do if he can? Just what am I supposed to do with this one? A useless—”
“Perhaps, Mistress Jehanne, but let’s remember that he’s been through quite an adventure. Why don’t you go on ahead and I’ll see him to the hall safely?”
“Don’t know why you’d bother,” the woman muttered, then strode away.
She held out her hand and instantly an arm was there for her use. She used that arm as a means of getting to her feet, then wished with particular fervor that she hadn’t bothered. She stood there for several minutes, just breathing in and out, wondering how she might make her escape before the lord of the hall used her for his nefarious purposes.
Then again, demons likely didn’t visit their kitchens very often, so perhaps that was the place for her. She would do what work was required, sleep when she could, and determine where she was. Her liberty likely wouldn’t come easily, but it would come eventually if she were canny. She could pick any lock set before her because . . . because Jake had taught her to do so.
Jake? Who was Jake?
She looked up at Lord Joscelin. She had to admit he was extremely handsome and she was not unaccustomed to extremely handsome men. She wasn’t sure why that was, but it rang true in her mind so she accepted it as fact. She attempted a smile.
“I’ve lost my memory.”
“So I see,” he agreed.
“It’s a terrible bother.”
He laughed a little. “I daresay it is, la—lad. Can you remember nothing?”
“Nothing that makes any sense.”
“Time will cure that, I daresay. Until then, I imagine the kitchen is the safest place for you. We’re due to be overrun by the Duke of Coucy and his entourage tonight.”
“I don’t know them.”
He smiled again. “I do and there’s little to recommend them, trust me. Shall we go? I’ll make certain you have a spot well out of the way.”
She nodded, though she supposed the cook would have a far different opinion once Lord Joscelin was out of earshot. But she wasn’t particularly comfortable with the thought of having to entertain a duke, so perhaps he was right and the kitchens were the safest place for her. She happily let him tuck her hand in the crook of his elbow and lead her where she supposed she needed to go.
The kitchens were a familiar place, she had to admit, and the bustle there was soothing somehow. She was assessed quickly and put to scrubbing pots. She had obviously washed several things over the course of her life, but she had to admit after a pair of hours with her hands in extremely hot water with harsh soap that she could safely say that it was not what she was accustomed to doing for long periods of time.
“Useless lump!” the cook shouted at her. “Find something else to do!”
The floors needed scrubbing apparently, despite how many muddy feet were tromping over them or how much grease and leavings from the cooking fire were spilled on them. She scrubbed until her hands were burning after which she was put to fetching water from the well. That lasted perhaps the least amount of time because she simply was not equal to the labor of hauling heavy buckets of water. Cook finally simply bellowed at her to stay out of the way, which she was happy to do. She chose a handy wall to lean against and hoped her head would soon stop spinning. Once she thought she could manage it, she opened her eyes and looked about her. The kitchens were, she had to admit, very nice. Not that the kitchens of her father’s hall weren’t equally fine—
She froze, because the memory was just beyond her fingertips. She was certain if she could simply stretch her hand out a bit more, she would find it there. The kitchens in her father’s keep were large and staffed with not only an excellent cook but hardworking and contented helpers. She had been in those connected chambers countless times not only to filch apples for her horse but for her brothers as well because Cook had been particularly susceptible to her entreaties. The kitchens at . . .
“And who do we have here?”
She looked at the young man standing in front of her, grinning. He wasn’t particularly handsome but he was obviously quite impressed by his own sorry self. She sent him a look she had seen her sister send to countless lads who had come seeking her hand. Her sister whose name was—
“You’re a pretty thing.”
She realized the young man’s hands were on her waist and moving upward at an alarming rate. Her father would have slain him for that, of that she was sure, so she felt no hesitation in putting her hands in the middle of his chest and giving him a hearty shove.
“Surely you jest, sir,” she said in her best imitation of Amanda.
Amanda.
Amanda de Piaget.
Her sister, Amanda, which made her Isabelle de Piaget and the lad in front of her about to find himself in the sights of Rhys de Piaget, who would likely beat him to a bloody pulp before he bothered to run him through.
She felt memory rush back to her. She was Isabelle.
But what in the hell was she doing in France?
Obviously she was still missing several important memories, memories she would have to
acquire later. For the moment, she was facing a very angry lad who obviously seemed to think that being thwarted in his desire to kiss her was a grave insult to his pride. His face was very red. She was fairly sure that if he didn’t take a breath soon, he would experience an unpleasant bit of business with his poor form.
“Breathe,” she suggested.
“You stupid—”
She held up her hand. “Language, sir. I doubt your mother would approve of your behavior.”
“My mother definitely wouldn’t approve of what I’m about to do to you,” he snarled.
Well, there was no time like the present to dispense a little instruction for the betterment of men in general. She was fairly sure she’d heard that either from her mother or her sister. Perhaps the both of them. She watched as the lad reached out to take hold of her with his right hand. She was fairly sure she’d never had to defend herself against such an aggressor before, but what she did remember was a brief lesson on what to do in such straits given by some exasperated older brother or another. It was almost without thought that she grasped the lad’s right hand with her left, wrenched that hand, then took the heel of her right hand and slammed it with all her strength into his nose.
His head snapped back, which she found somewhat gratifying.
Unfortunately, it only seemed to enrage him the more.
She looked around her for aid, but there seemed to be none forthcoming. She sighed. Obviously she would have to take matters into her own hands. She took the lad by the shoulders and kneed him quite firmly in the privates. Whilst he was about a fair bit of gasping, she took the opportunity to draw his sword.
It was quite a bit heavier than she’d counted on, which gave her pause. She wished her memories had come back in less of a patchwork fashion. She was fairly sure she’d watched her brothers—whose names she still couldn’t bring to mind—in the lists, but she was equally sure they had never allowed her on the field with them. She would certainly have something to say about that when next they met.
But first, the challenge before her.
Because she was a de Piaget and even de Piaget women didn’t shy away from the difficult.
