His leg was so much better, he could scarce believe it. There hadn’t been a moment in the past four months that he hadn’t been aware of it paining him on some level, yet the night before he’d had a moment or two when he’d almost forgotten it had been so abused. Of course, the slightest movement had reminded him abruptly of what he’d endured, but when he remained still, things had been much better.
And he had Isabelle de Piaget to thank for that.
He hadn’t had any idea how to even speak to her the afternoon before. How exactly did a man go about being polite to a noblewoman he had first had scrubbing his filthy, grease-strewn floors under the watchful spoon of his ruthless cook, then left at the mercy of the saints only knew what sort of vermin on the floor in that kitchen until he’d regained his wits long enough to know she couldn’t possibly be what he’d thought her to be? Forgive me, Lady Isabelle, for treating you worse than my lowliest stable lad and would you be so kind as to forebear enlightening your sire about the same had seemed an awkward way to begin a conversation. He supposed asking her if she wanted to have a brief stroll in his garden, then snapping at her because she’d looked at him as if he’d been daft hadn’t been any better.
Perhaps he needed another trip to the kitchens where he would indeed soak not only his body but his head.
He was quite frankly amazed at how much good the former had done him. Once he’d gotten past all the scowling necessary to keep his kitchen help in line, that was. The first cheeky servant who had dared say anything to him about it had been told that said bathing was in preparation for the sacrificing of brazen serving lads later on in the fortnight. It was the last he heard about it, thankfully. Now, if he could only keep himself from saying any more inane things to his former scullery maid, he might make a success of the day.
He walked down the passageway to the kitchens, then ran bodily into his younger brother before he realized Joscelin was standing there.
Joscelin looked over his shoulder, then put his finger to his lips. Gervase frowned.
“Another pitched battle?”
“Something much more interesting. Look carefully.”
Gervase looked around his brother’s fat head to find Rhys de Piaget’s youngest daughter standing over a tub, washing pots.
“What in the hell—”
Joscelin elbowed him so hard, he lost his breath.
“Damn you,” Gervase wheezed. “And damn her. What is she doing?”
“She is trading her labor for money.”
“And just why in the hell would she need any gold?”
“She doesn’t care to live on your charity,” Joscelin said, “or she’s preparing to make a journey. It depends on who you ask.”
Gervase frowned. Neither of those things boded well for him, actually. He rested his elbow on Joscelin’s shoulder and had himself a think. It wasn’t comfortable for him to do so, but his elbow in his brother’s flesh was causing that brother to flinch, which was definitely worth whatever discomfort he himself was feeling. He considered, then removed his elbow.
“Have Cook get her out of the bloody kitchen,” he whispered in disgust.
“Where are you off to?”
“I was going to have something to eat, but I’ve lost my appetite. I believe I’ll go consult with Sir Aubert about the state of the garrison.”
“Sounds diverting.”
Gervase glared at him, then walked back up the passageway. The rest of his brothers were lazing about uselessly, pretending to study. He glared at them as well out of habit, then continued on his way. He needed to be outside where men wielded swords and comported themselves in ways he could understand. He wasn’t sure if Isabelle baffled him because she was an Englishwoman or because she was simply a woman. He’d known his share of women before, to be sure, but never one who left him scratching his head as she did.
Earning gold. Refusing to live on his charity. Just what species of creature was Rhys de Piaget spawning these days?
He spent a very unsatisfying hour in the lists watching his men and damning himself that he couldn’t hoist a sword with equal ease, much less wield it. It left him with very foul humors he wasn’t sure even a good soak could possibly balance. Perhaps a robust clouting over the head was what he required, but he wasn’t sure he trusted any of his household to administer that.
He walked toward the stables for no other reason than he liked the smell of horses and the way they wickered at him when he approached. At least they behaved as he expected them to.
He had scarce entered the bloody place before he was forced to skid to an ungainly halt. He pulled back behind a wall and blew out his breath. The woman was going to be the death of him, in truth. He leaned his head against the post because that was preferable to taking his head and banging it against said piece of unmoving wood.
“But, Master Simon,” Isabelle protested, “I am perfectly capable of mucking out a stall!”
The stablemaster made the noises of a man who had very recently been assaulted by half the king’s army and was lying, winded, in the mud. “B-b-but—”
“Here, lad, give me that pitchfork,” Isabelle demanded.
“But, mistress!” a lad squeaked.
“Aye,” Simon managed, in tones not much more firm, “I cannot allow a woman to muck out my stalls.”
“But I am in great need of gold,” Isabelle said. “Do you mean to deny me an honest day’s labor?”
“Ah—”
“Then a horse to exercise,” she said. “Look you there, there is a horse who looks to need a bit of work.”
Simon made a noise of disbelief. “That is His Grace’s favorite warhorse!”
“Then His Grace has a very fine eye. Let me put him through his paces.”
“I’ll go speak to him,” the stablemaster said, sighing heavily. “If he says aye—”
“I’ll saddle him—”
“I’ll see him saddled for you,” Simon corrected, “but only if Lord Gervase approves. You may go find a curry comb, if you like, and we’ll see if you have any skill with beasts.”
“And if I do an acceptable job?”
“You’ll earn accolades.”
“I’d prefer coins.”
Simon blew out his breath and walked away. Gervase waited until his stablemaster was within arm’s reach before he reached out and snagged the man by the sleeve. Simon looked over his shoulder, then ducked behind the wall as well.
“Your Grace?”
“Give her a horse to ride.”
“But, Your Grace!”
“I have every reason to believe she will filch one and ride it anyway, just to show the both of us what she can do. We may as well humor her while we may.”
Simon hesitated, then sighed. “As you will, my lord. Do you have a preference?”
“Something that won’t kill her,” Gervase said.
Simon leaned back to look around the post, then looked back at Gervase with wide eyes. “She has saddled Diablo—”
“Not him,” Gervase said firmly. “Absolutely not.”
Simon hesitated. “I don’t believe we’re going to have anything to say in the matter, my lord.”
Gervase dragged his good hand through his hair, then realized it was his right he had just used and it seemed to be functioning as it should. He was surprised enough by that to look at his hand. Withered still, aye, but not quite as withered as usual . . . unless he was going mad and imagining things, which he supposed was quite possible. He looked at his stablemaster.
“I want her off him at a walk if she can’t manage him.”
Simon took a deep breath. “A serving maid?”
Gervase supposed that the worst damage his accident had done was not to his leg but to his ability to school his features. Simon only smiled faintly.
“I didn’t suppose she was.”
“And that, my friend, is what makes you such a good judge of horseflesh.”
Simon made him a low bow, then walked off to see to his charge. The only t
hing Gervase could say, as he pulled back into the shadows and hid behind a handful of blankets hung on the wall, was that Simon had not been given his position out of pity. He was not only an excellent horseman, he had an eye for horses that Gervase had never seen matched in all his travels. There had been more than once that Gervase had purchased a beast, brought it home, and watched Simon consider it for less than a quarter hour before shaking his head slightly. He had never been wrong, fortunately or not, depending on one’s perspective, and Gervase considered himself fairly discriminating when it came to his steeds.
The only thing he could say at the moment was he was fairly certain that Isabelle would be safe enough if Simon thought her so.
He waited until he’d heard her pass by before he waited a bit longer, then made his way out to the lists. It was easy enough to lurk behind the crowd gathered there to watch that daft wench to exercise a horse she surely didn’t belong on—
He folded his arms over his chest and attempted a stern frown. Better that than gaping, which was precisely what all the rest of the men there were doing.
Well, hell. Perhaps many things could be said about Lord Rhys, but that he hadn’t taught his daughters to ride as well as his sons was definitely not one of them. He closed his eyes briefly, shook his head, then laughed. He couldn’t help himself. He looked about himself to find that a handful of the men standing there had turned to look at him as if he were the one who was daft.
He shrugged. What was he to say? The woman was spectacular. How he could have mistaken her for anything but what she was, he surely didn’t know. He supposed that eventually his household would recover from the shock of seeing her riding in trousers and a tunic, though he wasn’t so sure about himself.
He allowed himself another quarter hour of watching a woman he was fully convinced would spell his doom, take his favorite horse, and work him very methodically, no doubt as she’d seen her father do with his own mounts countless times. For all he knew, she had her own collection of very fine steeds and this was how she filled her mornings.
By the saints, she was . . . well, she was not a woman he ever would have thought might run off into the world, dressed as a lad. What in the hell had possessed her to leave the comforts of her home? He’d had more than a pair of encounters with her brothers Robin and Nicholas and knew how they outfitted themselves and their men. Isabelle likely enjoyed a quality of life and possessions that he suspected even he might lift an eyebrow at. Why would she have left all that behind?
She was, he had to admit, completely out of his experience.
She cooled his mount down just enough to be able to hop down out of the saddle and toss the reins to a stable lad who rushed forward to catch them. She strode over to Simon.
“Another,” she said firmly. “If you please.”
“One more, but only one,” he said, just as firmly, “lest you leave my lads with nothing to do today.”
“Perhaps one of Lord Gervase’s particular favorites, that I might show him my services are worth his gold.”
“As I said, you just worked his favorite jousting horse.”
“Then let me see the second favorite, aye?”
Gervase walked away while he still could. He found himself caught up to by Simon, who was obviously on his way back to the stables. Gervase looked at his stablemaster, then reached into his purse and pulled out two silver deniers.
“Best pay her something.”
“Very generous, my lord,” Simon said in surprise.
“I know, and I’m not sure why I’m finding myself with the impulse,” Gervase said frankly. The last thing he wanted was for Isabelle to feel as if she could hire away half his garrison to take her wherever she seemed to want to go.
He frowned. It wasn’t possible that she had regained her memories and knew who she was, was it?
The thought was surprisingly distressing. In fact, it was so distressing that he determined he wouldn’t spend any time at all considering it. He made his way back up to the hall, then continued on to his solar. Isabelle’s guardsmen had quite obviously been in the crowd and there was certainly no lack of others to look after her, so she would be safe enough for the moment. That left him free to completely ignore questions about her that bothered him and concentrate on other more useful subjects.
He attempted to look at his accounts, to tally figures that instead swam before his eyes in meaningless waves. He was heartily tempted to put his head down on his hands and simply fall asleep.
A knock on the door made him jump so badly, he wasn’t entirely sure he hadn’t fallen asleep sitting straight up in his chair.
“Enter,” he called, more feebly than he would have liked. He spared the effort to rub his hands over his face before he looked at his guest.
Damnation, it was the master of hounds. The man was a new one, retained by Guy while Gervase had been almost senseless in his chamber. That didn’t matter so much except that he found himself completely incapable of bringing the man’s name to mind.
“Aye?” Gervase asked, supposing they could forgo any pleasantries.
“My lord, the young mistress approached me with a proposition.”
Gervase sighed. He didn’t have to ask who the young mistress was. “Accompanied, I’m assuming, by her two guardsmen.”
“Aye, my lord.”
“What did she want?”
“To feed the hounds in return for the occasional coin.”
Unsurprising. The woman was fiendishly determined. “And you said her nay?”
“My lord, I didn’t dare!”
Gervase supposed he could understand that. “Send her to me.”
“As you will, my lord.”
The man—Henri, he thought his name might have been—bowed, then left the chamber. Gervase sighed, then rose and began to pace. No sense in not trying to recapture his wits before he was forced to argue with a woman whose ability to influence others to her way of thinking was apparently only matched by her skill not only with horses but a pot of hot, soapy water as well. He paced until he heard the door open behind him. He turned and stood with his back to the fire, wishing he had instead chosen to sit in a chair.
He had forgotten in the past half hour how fair she was. He supposed he might have been able to dismiss that if he hadn’t watched her do things every other woman of his acquaintance would have turned her nose up at.
She shut the door behind her rather more firmly than necessary. “My lord,” she said briskly. “You sent for me?”
Gervase frowned in surprise. He had expected several things, but anger hadn’t been on that list.
“Ah,” he managed.
“How many I serve you?” she demanded.
The truth was, she sounded as if she would have sooner stuck a knife in his chest than do anything useful for him.
“Well,” he began slowly, “I was wondering where you were.”
She lifted her chin. “I was attempting to earn a few coins.”
Ah, now he would hear the reason from her own lips. “Why do you need coins?”
“Because I cannot forever live on your charity,” she said stiffly. “And I have a journey to make.”
So he’d heard. “You’re not taking food out of my mouth,” he said, which he considered to be an extremely reasonable thing to say. “Nor my brothers’. My peasants are equally well fed. Why not you?”
“Because I cannot live on your charity.”
“You said that before.”
“I meant it twice.”
He could only stare at her, utterly baffled. Perhaps that was how all de Piaget women conducted their business. She wasn’t pointing a sword at him, so he supposed things could have been worse.
“Why,” he asked slowly, “do you need means that I cannot provide for you?”
She shifted. It was just a slight shift, but to his mind, it spoke volumes. There were realizations going on inside her head, things he supposed he might not want to know but knew he had to find out. He clasped his hands
behind his back, had a slight moment of pleasure that he could actually manage the like, then turned back to his particular problem.
“I could help you more successfully,” he added, “if you could tell me exactly why you need something to put in your purse. Perhaps you’re regaining a few of your memories . . . ”
She shook her head. “Still in a bit of a fog there.”
She was a terrible liar. It was thoroughly refreshing, that lack of ability. He couldn’t say that every woman he had known had been a liar, but he knew far too many for his taste. It was tempting to ask her for her opinion of him, but perhaps there were limits to how much truth he cared to hear at the moment.
“What do you think of my brothers’ studies?” came out of his mouth instead.
“They are neglecting them,” she said without hesitation.
That, at least, was a decent bit of truth. “Could you inspire them to greater heights of commitment?”
“Perhaps.”
“Then I’ll employ you to do that.” Because that was preferable to having her clean out the cesspit, which he imagined she would do if she thought someone would hand her gold for the deed. Lord Rhys might only hurt him, not slay him, for having used his daughter thus.
“How much?”
He considered, then named a sum that no tutor would have taken on his most desperate day. Isabelle’s mouth fell open a little, then she looked down her nose at him.
“Surely you jest, monseigneur le duc. I, however, am not jesting.”
Damnation, that’s what he was afraid of. He sighed. “I’ll pay you whatever you ask.”
“I’ll have a gold sovereign at the end of every se’nnight.”
He choked. It was involuntary at first, but he found that once he had started with it, there was no sense in stopping. He accepted a cup of something he hoped was drinkable from Isabelle but stopped her from pounding on his back. He held up his hand, caught his breath, then looked at her.
“You mercenary.”