Claire Delacroix (5 page)

What would he have given to have even seen the visage of his own dame? All he knew of that lady was her name, Eglantine.

As Yves stared at the sky, lost in his thoughts, a longing awakened in his heart for something as alien to him as the most exotic eastern perfume.

Yet the Lady Gabrielle had made it clear that any affection in her heart was not for Yves. Theirs would be a match—if indeed, they did retrieve Thomas and Perricault—made in name alone. Yves felt a surge of irritation at Gabrielle’s demand.

He was not that foul to look upon, after all. Other women invited him to their beds, even if he did not accept their offers. Yves scowled and whistled anew.

Where
was
Gaston?

The second bell for the evening meal was sounded as the knight propped his hands on his hips and surveyed the grounds with mounting irritation. There was no sign of the squire.

Curse the boy! Yves pursed his lips once more, just as Gaston came hurtling around the corner.

G
aston, all flailing arms and legs in his haste, was tousled from head to toe, and there was a suspicious smudge of dirt down the left side of his tabard. He wiped something red from his cheek, his eyes widening when he glanced down at the resulting crimson smear on his hand, then bowed deeply to his lord.

“Sir!” Gaston straightened, then licked his lips nervously. Evidently Yves’ displeasure showed, but he neither softened his pose nor greeted the boy. Let Gaston sweat the results of his inattentiveness! “I hope you have not been waiting upon me, my lord.”

“Of course I have. The dinner bell has sounded twice.”

Gaston glanced to the hall and shuffled his feet. “I would apologize, my lord.”

“And so you should.” Yves arched a brow. “You are fortunate that I am not too proud to garb myself.”

Gaston flushed, then caught his breath as Yves stepped quickly forward.and slid a thumb across the line on his cheek where the blood was beading once more. Their gazes flicked as one to the stain on Yves’ thumb, then met.

“Again?” Yves asked mildly. “I should have guessed.”

Gaston’s complexion turned a deeper crimson. “My lord,
it was simply a jest. I had to prove to them that I had learned much in your employ…”

“Them?” Yves’ tone was chilling.

Gaston fidgeted. “The other squires, sir. There was Richard from—”

“I care nothing for their names,” Yves interrupted tersely, fixing the boy with his most stern glare. “Were you sparring without supervision
again?
”

Gaston’s eyes opened wide in appeal and Yves knew the answer before he spoke. “My lord, it was only for a moment! And they challenged me! What else could a man of honor do?”

“Keep his pledge to his knight,” Yves retorted, and the boy hung his head.

“I am sorry, my lord,” he mumbled.

The boy looked so contrite that Yves did not have the heart to stay angry with him. It was, after all, only Gaston’s enthusiasm that continually undermined his obedience.

If only Gaston did not want to be a swordsman so badly. If the squire’s impetuousness could be curbed—his concentration improved, his inattention to detail remedied—he might make a good knight.

If nothing else, he had an interest in the task.

Yves laid a hand on Gaston’s shoulder. “Do not be so impatient, Gaston. You will master all the skills in time.” He gave the boy a minute shake, but Gaston was inconsolable.

Perhaps Yves had been too harsh with him. Perhaps he had let his own experiences of this day spill over into this encounter, which would have been beyond unfair.

Perhaps a little encouragement was in order, instead of criticism.

Yves continued in a more gentle tone. “Time will give you more than ample opportunity to swing a blade, for you do have an aptitude for the task.”

Gaston looked up in wonder, his eyes shining. “Truly?”

The boy’s enthusiasm was engaging, but Yves gave him a
strict glance all the same. “Truly. But you must do as you are bidden! I had you pledge to not use my weaponry for your own safety, for you still have much to learn and I would not see you wounded in foolish horseplay. That was no small promise you granted me and broke.”

Gaston colored anew, but his smile was filled with proud delight. Oh, the boy had a gift for hearing only what he desired to hear!

“I shall not repeat the offense, my lord.”

Yves did not believe that for a moment, but he let the matter be. “You need to have this washed so it mends cleanly. The healer at the keep will manage it” He rumpled the boy’s hair. “We would not want you to frighten the ladies with your scars before you even earn your spurs.”

“No, my lord, no, sir.”

The third bell sounded and they turned as one, matching steps as they strode toward the keep, the squire fairly bouncing with delight at Yves’ meager approval.

“You think I shall earn my spurs then?”

“With diligence.”

Gaston shot a glance at Yves, and the knight braced himself for a question that would doubtless be impertinent. “Might we spar later this evening, sir?”

“Gaston!” Yves used his most forbidding voice. “You know well enough that the count has granted me many responsibilities in his household and that such numbers of guests will add even more to the weight of that burden.”

“Yes, my lord.” The disappointment in the boy’s voice was almost tangible.

“And if there is any time to spare, we must make arrangements to depart.” Yves kept his gaze fixed on the ground ahead, even as Gaston’s head shot up. He knew the boy’s eyes would be bright with curiosity, but had not yet decided how much of a role Gaston would play in pending events.

Certainly Yves would have to see some improvement in basic discipline before granting Gaston any further responsibility.
As it was, he sometimes despaired of leaving his faithful steed in the boy’s oft forgetful care.

It was good fortune indeed that great black Merlin was as tolerant of Gaston’s failings as Yves was.

“Depart?”

“Yes. We leave with the dawn.”

“But where will we go, my lord?”

Yves considered for a moment how readily Gaston spread news among his fellow squires. There was a good chance that someone here for the tourneys might have a connection with Philip de Trevaine. A careless word could easily return to him from here.

Lady Gabrielle had seen matters aright. Yet again, Yves was reassured that he was dealing with a woman who was clearly possessed of uncommon good sense.

“We take a missive for the count.” Yves said casually.

“Aha!” Gaston’s eyes gleamed. “A declaration of war!”

“No. It is a mere formality, a wedding agreement, I believe,” Yves lied. “Indeed, it is more of an excuse for you and me to have a leave from the business of war.”

Gaston blew threw his teeth. “I have no need of a leave,” he muttered. “I would rather attack castles and save maidens in distress! Perhaps scale a wall!” He turned on Yves excitedly. “Have you ever scaled a wall, my lord? Perhaps over a dark and dangerous moat?”

“Once or twice,” Yves acknowledged, and Gaston sighed with longing at the very thought.

“I should like to try that! And match swords with a fiendish foe at the summit!” Gaston lunged back and forth, feigning a very active battle. “Ha! Take that, you villainous oaf!” He gave the death blow of his mock engagement. “Then the damsel in distress would be so grateful to me,” he declared, pursing his lips for a great, puckering kiss that nearly made Yves smile.

The boy’s words prompted Yves to try and put Gabrielle de Perricault into the role of despairing damsel in distress.

He failed utterly.

And that did make him smile.

Gabrielle would not be the kind of woman to wait patiently for rescue, by any means. And even if some knight did save her, she would not fall on her knees in gratitude.

No, Gabrielle de Perricault would coolly review the rescue strategy, making suggestions as to how the goal could have been achieved sooner and more effectively.

Yves smothered his unwilling smile. There was something refreshing about a woman with her wits about her. He patted Gaston on the shoulder. “Perhaps we will have time to match blades on the journey,” he said consolingly.

The way Gaston’s face lit up provided all the confirmation Yves needed of the idea’s appeal. When the boy hooted and danced ahead, Yves shook his head at such enthusiasm.

Moats and damsels in distress, indeed.

An hour later, Yves entered the hall just before the count, that man’s hand heavy on Yves’ shoulder and his typical monologue rumbling in Yves’ ear.

“…Fine decision, my boy, though you always showed a ready ability to assess a situation. I am most pleased to find you taken with Gabrielle de Perricault. She is a supremely fitting choice for you.”

Yves slanted a glance toward his patron. “It is early days to talk of the fulfillment of her offer. I have not yet won the challenge.”

The count smothered a smile. “Ah, but you will, my boy, you will. I have seen well enough over the years the kind of determination you bring to a fight even when your heart is not engaged.” He winked, a hint that, as always, he was aware they were likely overheard as they waded through the assembly of bowing nobles. “This lady has no chance.”

Despite the crowd in the hall, Yves easily picked out the figure of Gabrielle de Perricault. She was garbed in simple indigo, a color that he guessed would favor the curious shade
of her eyes, though where that unbidden thought had sprung from, he could not say.

Her dark hair was hidden, its ebony hue securely pulled behind a sturdy veil. That veil was anchored in place with a silver circlet of a simplicity that Yves found oddly pleasing.

The cut of her surcoat was uncomplicated, the wool unadorned with embroidery. The garment’s simple lines accentuated her slenderness and her height, though Yves found the result far from displeasing. She wore no jewelry, yet the starkness of her attire suited her direct manner well.

All in all, the lady was not hard upon the eyes. Yves liked that her slender figure was neither plump nor painfully thin and that she was tall enough to look a man in the eye.

Yves suspected they would not have to slow the pace of their ride to suit Lady Gabrielle. This was a lady who would ride as long and as hard as most of his men. Indeed, he would guess that she would be the last to concede to hardship or handicap of any kind.

“And it is time enough that one of our noblewomen has caught your eye, Yves.” The count squeezed Yves’ shoulder companionably and the knight glanced up to find his patron’s eyes sparkling with mischief. “There were those, you know, who expressed certain concerns about you and, shall we say, your
taste
in partner, for you are getting no younger and there have been no rumors of any liaisons in your tent.”

Yves glared at the count. “My taste is perfectly orthodox,” he stated coldly, and the count chuckled.

“So I said myself, my boy, so I did. I knew you were not of that persuasion. Similarly, I knew well enough that you were the kind of man who would not sully himself with this cheap piece of baggage and that, but who would wait for the right woman to come along. I knew you would wait until you were
smitten
before taking a lady’s cause to your own.”

Smitten?

The count leaned forward and whispered in Yves’ ear. “And Lady Gabrielle is perfect for you. A fair estate, good
breeding, not unattractive but not a beauty by any means. Not spectacularly marriageable but definitely in need of a spouse…” The count’s voice wavered slightly as he considered this, then he continued with confidence. “She is a solid, good-hearted woman upon whom you can depend.”

He clapped Yves on the shoulder, and Yves was surprised to realize that he found it offensive to hear this lady discussed in such a callous way.

More than good-hearted, Gabrielle de Perricault would sacrifice her very life for her son. And that was a rare trait indeed, especially among the noblewomen Yves had met these many years. Such creatures were unfailingly pretty but lacked an interest in anything beyond themselves and their own comfort.

Gabrielle was of a different breed, and it was startling to think that she was less eligible as a result.

But
smitten?
Yves eyed the lady in question, curiously unsettled by the count’s assumption that he accepted this charge purely to gain the lady’s favor. He had never been taken with a woman—indeed, that would have been sorely illogical!—and could not imagine why the count should assume he was now.

“By the way, I must congratulate you on what you have already accomplished with Gaston,” the count continued in a low murmur. “My sister is quite amazed by his progress beneath your hand and has come to believe the boy might make his spurs.”

“I have no doubt he will.” Yves silently added provisos to that assertion in his mind, knowing that the count wanted to hear only good news about his once-errant nephew.

“But his discipline!” The count clucked his teeth. “He was so unruly before you took charge of him.” The nobleman’s grip tightened momentarily on Yves’ shoulder. “I truly am pleased by the changes you have wrought in the boy.”

Yves held his tongue, not in the least bit certain there had been an appreciable change in Gaston’s behavior.

The count rolled his eyes and lowered his voice. “I had begun to fear, I must say, that my sister’s ambitions for him might prove his only hope.” He shuddered visibly. “To think that any blood of my own might become a troubadour!”

“I believe they earn good coin,” Yves felt obliged to say.

The count grimaced. “But in such a way! No home to call their own, no bed two nights in a row, no certainty from whence one’s next meal will come.”

He shook his head and doubtless would have continued in this vein, but in that very moment Gaston himself appeared.

The boy’s garb was remarkably neat, Yves noted, and Yves’ cup and linen were in hand. Evidently Gaston had dashed off to change once it became clear that the count would sequester himself with Yves and dinner would be delayed.

The only sign of disorder was a smear of carmine on Gaston’s cheek, undoubtedly bestowed by one of the cluster of adoring female relatives who now watched his progress. The boy stood so straight and tall as he approached that his demeanor was all that could be hoped for and more.

Yves wondered suspiciously whether his Gaston had a twin he knew nothing about. This was most unlike the boy he chided all the day long.

Yves even glanced over his shoulder, silently marveling when Gaston fell demurely behind him as he had been bidden to do dozens of times without success. The female relatives whispered to each other with obvious delight, and Gaston’s ears pinkened.

Perhaps Yves should promise the opportunity to spar more frequently.

“Lady Gabrielle!” the count boomed, and chatter ceased as all turned to see what transpired. That lady dropped gracefully to one knee as they approached, with nary a flicker of a glance at Yves to hint that they had already met.

“My lord Count.”

“Rise, lady! I have found the perfect companion for you
on your journey to the convent of the Sisters of Ste. Radegund.”