by Amanda Quick
“I saw her. A younger woman. And a blue-eyed blond at that.” Clare munched her pie enthusiastically. After a morning’s hectic bargaining, she was half starved. “How can I compete?”
“Useless. You must resign yourself to the boredom of being wed to a husband who cannot compose a ballad or sing a single note.”
Clare grinned. Gareth looked anything but boring sprawled in the sunshine. He lounged at his ease, graceful and dangerous in the manner of a fierce beast of prey.
She had not had much time to talk to him since they had arrived early this morning to set up the tents and prepare for the day’s business. But she had been aware of him checking on her and Joanna from time to time. One or two of his men had always been nearby to make certain petty thieves did not make off with the goods.
“You and Sir Ulrich have been a good influence on Dallan and young William, my lord,” Clare said quietly. “I’ll admit that at first Joanna and I were uneasy about some of your decisions regarding their welfare.”
His eyes gleamed with complacency. “Just as you were uneasy about the business of taking a husband.”
“Aye.” Clare finished the last of her pie and wrapped her arms around her updrawn knees. “But things seem to be working out well enough.”
“Naturally they’re working out.” Gareth lifted one shoulder in a dismissing movement as he popped the last of the pie into his mouth. “Why shouldn’t they? I fail to see what is so difficult about marriage. It all seems very simple and straightforward to me.”
“Does it, indeed, my lord?” Clare batted her lashes with mocking admiration.
“Aye.” Gareth brushed crumbs from his hands. “‘Tis merely a matter of a man taking command of a household and setting down a few rules. Once everyone knows the rules, matters proceed at an orderly pace and all is harmonious.”
Clare picked up the pouch she had used to carry the cloth and the hot pies and hefted it in a threatening fashion. “A matter of a man taking command of a house-hold, did you say, sir?”
Gareth held up a placating hand. “Not just any man, of course. One who can read.”
She hurled the pouch lightly at his head. Gareth flopped onto his back as though mortally wounded.
“There are some husbands who would take offense at this kind of thing,” he said in an injured tone.
“But not you, my lord. You are no ordinary husband.”
No ordinary man at all, Clare thought. You are the man I love.
“An ordinary husband would no doubt bore you, madam.”
“Aye.” Clare closed her eyes and took a deep breath. It felt good to be sharing the afternoon with Gareth.
The scents of the fair sorted themselves out for her sensitive nose. She could detect the savory smells from the food booths, the earthy odors of sheep and goats, the fresh essence of the grass on which she had spread the cloth.
Most of all she was aware of the indefinable Tightness of the scent of the man beside her.
Gareth waited for the space of a couple of heartbeats, as if he had anticipated more of a reaction from her. When it was not forthcoming, he picked up the leather pouch that she had tossed at him. “There is something left in this bag.”
“Aye.”
“Another morsel, mayhap?” He opened the leather flap and peered inside. “I could eat a second pie.”
“Nay, my lord. No pies.” Clare took a deep breath and schooled herself to speak very casually. “‘Tis a gift for you.”
“A gift?” Gareth’s head came up with unexpected swiftness. All trace of his easygoing manner had vanished. “For me?”
“Aye, my lord.” She rested her chin on her knees and studied him.
Gareth stared at her, a very odd expression in his eyes. It was the first time Clare had ever seen him bemused.
“Thank you,” he finally said.
“Do not thank me until you have seen it. Mayhap you will not care for it.”
Gareth reached into the bag and took out an elegantly fashioned, tightly stoppered flask. He examined it with a look of intense pleasure. “Perfume? For me?”
Clare blushed. “‘Tis a special recipe that I created for you and you alone, sir. I hope you will like it.”
Gareth carefully removed the stopper and bent his head to inhale the fragrance.
“Wait.”
Gareth looked up with an inquiring expression.
“My lord, I very nearly forgot to inquire if you are made ill by mugwort or mint or cloves or some other ingredient.”
Gareth shook his head. “Nay. Why do you ask?”
Clare relaxed. “Never mind. ‘Tis merely that I knew someone once who had a most violent reaction to mugwort.”
“I find mugwort quite pleasant.” Gareth took a deep, savoring breath. “This mixture is very, very fine, madam.”
“Do you really like it?”
“Aye.” He inhaled again. “It smells of many things that I have always enjoyed, the fresh air of dawn and the tang of the sea. I shall keep it in my clothing chest.”
“I’m glad you like it.” Clare smiled slightly. “Not every man cares for pleasant-smelling tunics and linen.”
“Due to the nature of my previous career, I was obliged to smell a great many odors that I would willingly forget,” Gareth said. “This perfume will replace them in my mind.”
Clare tilted her head. “What sorts of odors were you forced to endure while you hunted outlaws?”
Gareth studied the exquisitely made perfume flask. “When I think on my past I recall the foul smells of burned cottages, dead men, and crying women. Whenever I smelled such odors, I knew I had arrived too late. All that: was left was to begin the hunt for the men who had created the stench.”
Clare chilled. “How terrible for you, Gareth. No wonder you were eager for a hall of your own.”
“I shall think of you whenever I inhale the scent of this perfume,” Gareth said quietly.
“And of Desire, my lord, your new home.”
“Aye. I shall most certainly think of Desire.” His eyes pinned hers. “Was there a special reason for this gift?”
“Nay, my lord,” Clare said lightly. “Merely the usual.”
“The usual? And what would that be?”
“As a token of my respect, of course.”
“Respect?”
“Aye. What other reason would a wife have for giving her husband a gift?”
“A good question, madam.”
“Dallan, help Ranulf fold the tent.”
Dallan jerked as if he had been stung. “Aye, my lord.”
Gareth frowned as he watched the minstrel hurry to assist Ranulf in packing the yellow-and-white-striped tent.
Something was wrong.
Gareth had noted the change in Dallan shortly after noon on this, the last day of the fair. Gone was the minstrel’s jaunty swagger and his enthusiasm for his position as squire-in-training. They had magically disappeared in the space of a few short hours. Melancholia and an anxious demeanor had taken their place.
Dallan seemed suddenly preoccupied with matters that weighed down his very soul. He jumped whenever someone spoke to him. He continued to carry out the orders Gareth gave him, but the eagerness which had characterized his behavior since he had sworn fealty to his new lord had vanished.
Gareth thought he understood the nature of the problem. He was less certain of what to do about it. He was no expert at dealing with lovesickness.
He waited until the boats had been loaded for the return trip to the Isle of Desire before he called Dallan aside.
“Dallan.”
“Aye, my lord?” Dallan wiped his hands on his tunic in a nervous gesture. “Did I do something wrong?”
“Nay. Walk with me for a moment. I wish to speak to you.”
“Aye, my lord.” Dallan shot Gareth a quick, uneasy glance as he obediently fell into step beside him.
Gareth clasped his hands behind his back and tried to think of the best way to approach this delicate subject. “Yo
u have sung many songs of love, minstrel, but mayhap you have not learned much about the matter.”
“I beg your pardon, my lord?”
Gareth cleared his throat. “A man’s first taste of passion is as unsettling as his first taste of war. Both are powerful in their own fashion and both have a way of temporarily distorting his view of himself and the world around him.”
Dallan looked politely blank.
Gareth sighed and tried again. “I know that you believe you have fallen in love with your pretty Alison. It no doubt saddens you to part from her.”
Dallan frowned. “I shall miss her.”
“Aye. That is understandable. However—”
“But I do not love her.”
Gareth glanced at him speculatively. “You don’t?”
“Nay. We had a pleasant time together, but I have told her that I cannot love any woman yet. I must make my way in the world before I can think on such matters.”
“Ah.” Gareth was vastly relieved. “A very wise statement from a man of your years. I’m impressed with your common sense. I have seen men twice your age make fools of themselves over a woman. ‘Tis not a pretty sight.”
Dallan gave him a quizzical look. “Was that all you wanted to say to me, my lord?”
“Aye. Run along and help pack the tents.”
“Aye, my lord.”
Gareth watched Dallan hurry back to join the others. He wondered if he had misinterpreted Dallan’s mood. It was possible that the young man suffered from severely unbalanced humors. The disease could prove lethal. Gareth had once known a man who was so severely afflicted with unbalanced humors that he had committed suicide.
Gareth determined to keep a close eye on his new squire-in-training.
Three days later Clare sat at her desk and nibbled at the end of her quill pen. She pondered her latest perfume recipe. It was difficult to properly describe the exact steps required for combining various substances to achieve the desired results of her more complex concoctions.
She studied what she had just written:
Put a quantity of water into a pan and put the pan into the fire. When the pan is red hot and the water boiling softly, take a fair quantity of your best rose leaves and put them in the pan.
The phrase fair quantity did not seem very exact. Abbess Helen had advised her to be very specific when she was writing recipes.
Clare scratched out “fair quantity” and inserted the words “two handsful.”
A single, peremptory knock was all the warning she got before the door opened and Gareth strode into the room. He had the book her father had written open in his hands. He was frowning intently over a passage.
“Clare, do we have any sulfur?”
“Aye, my lord. My father kept a quantity of it in the storerooms along with some other ingredients. The Arabic treatises make frequent reference to recipes that use sulfur-He often expressed his desire to experiment with it. Personally, I have never bothered with the stuff. I do not care for the smell.”
“Excellent, excellent. I must see if I can find it.” Gareth scowled over whatever it was that he was reading for another moment. “The charcoal will not be a problem. ‘Tis easy enough to make.”
“Have you found an intriguing recipe?”
“In this volume your father describes some very unusual recipes from the East.”
“Recipes that use sulfur?”
“Aye. I shall investigate them later.” He closed the heavy volume and tucked it under his arm. “What are you doing?”
“I am working on my own book.”
“Ah, yes. Your book of perfume recipes.” Gareth surveyed the volumes on the shelves of her study chamber. “Your library is almost as large as the convent’s.”
“I am very proud of it. Many of the books were collected by my father, of course, but I have acquired one or two on my own. I am especially pleased with the one that was written by Abbess Helen of Ainsley. ‘Tis a most learned work on herbs which I consult frequently.”
“Abbess Helen of Ainsley?” Gareth repeated in a strangely neutral voice.
“Aye.” Clare smiled proudly. “She has been kind enough to enter into a correspondence with me.”
“You exchange letters with an abbess?”
“Quite regularly. I find her advice on the properties of herbs invaluable. As it happens, she will be arriving soon for a visit.”
“She will?” Gareth looked startled.
Clare nodded happily. “I am very excited. Prioress Margaret sent word this morning. She tells me I can expect Abbess Helen any day now. You will have an opportunity to meet her, my lord.”
“That should prove interesting.”
“Aye. She will no doubt stay with us here at the hall. That is what she did the last time she came to visit. ‘Tis a great honor for us.”
“I see.” Gareth lowered himself onto the window seat. “Well, that is neither here nor there. At the moment I wish to talk to you about Dallan.”
“What about him?” Clare frowned. “I thought he was proving to be very satisfactory in his new position as a squire-in-training. If he is having difficulties or not giving good service, I pray you will be patient with him. He needs time, my lord.”
“He performs his duties with right goodwill. That is not the problem. I am concerned about his growing melancholia.”
“I know what you mean.” Clare put down her pen. “It is very worrisome. ‘Tis almost as bad now as it was when he first arrived on Desire. For a time he improved markedly. But since the fair he seems to have grown very anxious again.”
“What do you know of young Dallan’s history?”
Clare regarded him thoughtfully. “Very little. He is a bastard, as you know. He claims to have been raised in the home of a man of rank. As you and I have discussed, I suspect he was not well treated.”
“That’s all you know of him?”
Clare reflected on the question. “Aye, I believe so. He never speaks of his past.”
“Or of the man who raised him?”
“Nay. I have the impression that he would prefer to forget both.”
“Mayhap he cannot forget, although he tries.”
“Aye. Some things cannot be conveniently forgotten.”
“True. But a man who cannot forget must learn to deal with the devils that plague him.”
“Give him time, my lord. He has only been with us for a short while.”
“’Tis the suddenness with which this new fit of melancholia has come upon him that concerns me. He was content and cheerful during the fair until the last day. I thought at first that he was suffering from lovesick-ness.”
Clare smiled. “Young Alison?”
“Aye. I spoke to him of the matter, but he claims he is not afflicted with the illness.” Gareth grimaced. “Thanks be to the saints for that. I have not the least notion of how to cure such a disease quickly and I have never known a doctor who could treat it successfully.”
“I believe you once told me that you, personally, have not suffered from it for many years,” Clare murmured dryly.
“Nay.” Gareth shrugged. “Lovesickness is for poets and fools.”
“Of course.”
“A man in my position cannot afford to indulge himself in such an illness.”
“Why not, pray? What harm can it do?”
“What harm?” Gareth scowled. “The harm is obvious. ‘Tis a most dangerous fever. It destroys sound judgment and common sense.”
“Of course. I do not know what I was thinking of to even ask such a foolish question. Well, then, about Dallan. What do you suggest?”
Gareth considered. “It would no doubt be best to give him something to think about that will take his mind off whatever it is that is plaguing him.”
“An excellent plan, my lord. I have noticed that men have a great skill for ignoring certain pressing problems in favor of amusing themselves with other matters.”
Gareth cocked a brow. “Have I said something to annoy you, mada
m?”
“Not at all,” Clare assured him very smoothly. “What do you believe would successfully distract Dallan from whatever it is that is unbalancing his humors and inducing melancholy?”
Gareth glanced down at the book he was holding. “Mayhap I shall ask him to assist me in my experiments with sulfur and charcoal.”
“I believe he will find that very interesting.” Clare was briefly intrigued herself. “Let me know when you are ready to demonstrate the results of your work, my lord. I would enjoy witnessing them even though I do not much care for the odor of sulfur.”
“I shall send word when I’m ready with the experiment.” Gareth rose from the window seat, kissed her lightly on the mouth, and went toward the door.
Clare watched him leave. She experienced a twinge of melancholy herself as she reflected on their conversation. Lovesickness is for poets and fools.
She was neither a poet nor a fool, but she was very much afraid that she was suffering from lovesickness.
She did not enjoy suffering alone.
It was not as if Gareth were completely free of the softer emotions, she told herself. There were some encouraging signs. For example, he always smelled of the new fragrance she had given to him.
And there was no doubting the forcefulness of his passion, she thought. He made no secret of his desire for her and he seemed pleased that she responded so completely to his lovemaking. In truth, he demanded a response from her.
She knew he respected her knowledge, skill, and cleverness in the matter of perfumes, but that was not saying much. Even Nicholas had possessed sufficient wit to appreciate her talent for making money.
What gave her the greatest hope was that, just as he had a moment ago, Gareth had begun consulting her more and more frequently of late before making a decision.
Their marriage was beginning to work just as she had anticipated when she had composed her recipe for a husband. She and Gareth were learning to share their duties and responsibilities. They were learning to trust each other.
In many ways she had gotten exactly what she had wanted in a husband, even if he was somewhat larger than she had specified.
But it was not enough.
She wanted love.
