Desire

14

Gareth saw immediately that Dalian was hopelessly overmatched.

The pickpocket was skinny and wiry and not much older than the minstrel.

The rigors of his profession, however, had not only toughened him, they had endowed him with basic dagger fighting skills and absolutely no sense of chivalry. He did not appear to mind in the least that his opponent was unarmed.

Although he was at a serious disadvantage, Dalian had somehow managed to corner the thief behind a large brewer's tent. There was blood on Dalian's arm, but most of it appeared to be spewing from his nose, not a dagger cut. Gareth was grateful for that much. He did not relish the thought of explaining to Clare how her precious minstrel had gotten himself nicked.

It was obvious that Dalian was compensating for his lack of skill with sheer, unswerving determination. He faced the pickpocket fearlessly, as aggressive as a young hound with its first boar.

The pickpocket, accustomed to a more stealthy approach to such matters, seemed genuinely confused by his opponent's relentless assault. Nor did he like the attention the fight was receiving.

Several of the brewer's customers had ambled around the corner of the tent to watch the brawl. Loud cheers and shouts of encouragement filled the air as the two young males circled each other. For once Dalian was not twitching.

The pickpocket's eyes darted nervously left and right. He was clearly searching for an opportunity to bolt past Dalian and escape into the crowd.

Gareth swept the ring of onlookers with a single glance, seeking the source of Dalian's newfound boldness.

He spotted her at once. She was a pretty girl with blond curls, blue eyes, and a jaunty green cap. Her expression of rapt excitement and her glowing cheeks told its own story. Dalian had found himself a maiden in need of rescue.

"Halt, both of you."

Gareth strode into the middle of the fight and seized each young man by the scruff of the neck. He gave them both a brief, rough shake. Then he held them apart until they came to their senses long enough to comprehend that an outsider had interfered in the battle.

"This brawl is ended," Gareth said.

"He started it." Dalian wiped his bleeding nose with his sleeve. "He tried to steal Alison's purse."

"I did not. He lies." The pickpocket glowered at Dalian. His dagger had miraculously disappeared into the voluminous folds of his shabby clothes.

Gareth reasoned that Alison was the name of the girl hovering nearby. He glanced at her. "Do you still have your purse?"

Alison looked first startled and then decidedly uneasy at finding herself addressed by the lord of Desire. She flushed a deep pink. "Aye, m'lord. Tis safe enough." She patted the small leather pouch that hung from her girdle. Her eyes kindled with feminine admiration as she gazed at her champion. "Thanks to Dalian."

"Bah, I never laid a hand on her purse." The primitive fury of battle faded from the pickpocket's gaze. Wariness took its place. He measured Gareth with a quick, assessing glance, obviously recognizing him. As a professional thief, he would have learned early to mark men of rank in the crowd so as to avoid costly miscalculations. An unfortunate choice of victims could lead to a bad end for his kind. "I'm innocent, m'lord.

I swear it on me mother's grave."

"He's a rogue and a thief," Dalian declared.

"Mayhap," Gareth said quietly. "But 'tis as important for a man to know when to end a battle as it is for him to know when to begin one. You've saved Alison's purse. One chivalrous act a day is enough for any man." He looked at the pickpocket. "Off with you. And take care that my squire-in-training is not obliged to deal with you a second time."

The pickpocket stared. "Squire-in-training? By my oath, I didn't know he was yer man, m'lord."

"You do now," Gareth said.

"Twas an honest mistake," the pickpocket whined. "Could 'ave 'appened to anyone."

"Begone."

The pickpocket needed no further urging. He whirled around and melted into the crowd.

Disappointed with the tame outcome of the event, the onlookers drifted back to the ale tent to refill their mugs.

Dalian looked at the blood on his sleeve and then raised dumbfounded eyes to Gareth's face. "Did you mean that, my lord? I'm going to be your squire?"

"I'd be pleased to have such a brave man in my service." Gareth held out his hands. "Will you swear fealty to me, Dalian of Desire? Think well before you give your oath on this. I demand absolute and unswerving loyalty from those who serve me."

"Dalian of Desire." Dalian repeated the words as though they were a magical incantation. He put his hands in Gareth's, fell to his knees, and bowed his head. "My lord, from this day forward, I vow, I am your man."

"Tis done, then." Gareth glanced at Alison and William, who were watching the small ceremony with awed expressions on their faces. "You two are my witnesses. Henceforth this man shall be known as Dalian of Desire and he is in my service. He has the right to my protection and in return he has vowed allegiance to me."

"Aye, my lord," William whispered excitedly. "I cannot wait to tell Mother and Lady Clare."

Alison gazed upon Dalian as though he had recently been transformed from a brave minstrel into a hero from a legend. "You serve the Hellhound of Wyckmere," she breathed, clearly entranced by his improved status in life.

Gareth resisted the urge to grin as Dalian staggered to his feet. "Go and wash the blood off, Squire-in-training. You will frighten the ladies."

"Aye, my lord." Dalian straightened his thin shoulders.

"I'll help you get cleaned up," William volunteered eagerly.

"I'll fetch a cloth," Alison said.

Gareth watched as Dalian was led off by his admirers. There was a new swagger to the minstrel's step and masculine pride in the set of his chin.

It was astounding how a man's view of himself and the world altered once he knew he belonged somewhere, Gareth thought.

"Alone at last." Gareth lowered himself down onto the large square of brightly striped cloth that Clare had spread out on the grass. He leaned back on his elbow and gazed out over the busy grounds of the fair. "Thought I'd never get rid of Dalian.

The lad's been at my heels all afternoon."

"I'm surprised at how eagerly he entered your service." Clare handed Gareth one of the hot pies stuffed with minced meat and nuts that she had just purchased from a nearby stall. "I would never have thought he'd have been so enthusiastic about becoming your personal squire."

"Squire-in-training," Gareth muttered.

"Is there a difference?"

"Aye. Young Dalian has a long way to go before he qualifies as a fully trained squire. He does not yet know one end of a lance from the other."

"I vow, he has certainly undergone a great change today."

"Becoming an instant hero will do that to a man."

Clare smiled. "It was very generous of you to make him into a hero, my lord."

"No one can make a man heroic. He has to do it for himself. Dalian has courage." Gareth took a large bite out of his pie. "I hate to have to tell you this, madam, but you've lost one of your admirers. I fear he has chosen to devote himself to another lady."

"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 Dalian 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 household, 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 torte.

"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 mug-wort."

"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."

"Dalian, help Ranulf fold the tent."

Dalian 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 Dalian 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.

Dalian 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 Dalian aside.

"Dalian."

"Aye, my lord?" Dalian 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." Dalian 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. "You 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."

Dalian 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."

Dalian 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."

Dalian 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 Dalian hurry back to join the others. He wondered if he had misinterpreted Dalian'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 Dalian."

"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 Dalian'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 lovesickness."

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 Dalian. 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, madam?"

"Not at all," Clare assured him very smoothly. "What do you believe would successfully distract Dalian 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.

And as far as Gareth was concerned, love was for poets and fools.

Two days later Clare was again at her desk when a great thunderclap resounded across the courtyard.

Startled, she leaped to her feet and went to the window. She frowned when she realized that there was not a single storm cloud in sight.

Confused, she glanced down into the courtyard. A shout went up. A maid screamed. The stonemasons stopped work on the new wall. Men spilled from the stables in alarm. A horse whinnied and plunged in fright. Several chickens cackled madly as they darted across the yard.

And then great, billowing clouds of smoke poured from the windows of her father's workroom. Even as Clare watched, the door burst open and two figures reeled out into the sunlight. Gareth and Dalian were covered in gray ash.

Clare whirled and raced out of the chamber. She ran to the tower stairs and flew down them.

"Gareth. My lord, are you all rightr she shouted as she dashed out onto the hall steps. She stared at the ash-covered figures. The acrid scent of sulfur assailed her nostrils.

Dalian smiled weakly. He looked dazed but unhurt.

Gareth's teeth flashed in a triumphant grin through his gray mask. "It worked."

"In the name of Saint Hermione's night robe," Clare gasped as Gareth ran to her and caught her up. "What worked?"

"One of your father's sulfur recipes." Gareth swung her around in a circle. His laughter rang out across the yard. "It worked, Clare. It really worked."

"I can see that. But of what possible use is this sulfur mix?"

"I have no notion yet. The important thing is that the recipe worked."