“Oh, nay, Maris. On the night we first met, I wanted you…and that desire grew, and so did the despair that I could never have you. I couldn’t believe my good fortune when Henry betrothed us…and then he showed me the missive from your father.
“In that missive, not only did he repudiate your betrothal with Victor,” Dirick said, unable to hold back a grin, “but he also requested that, if the king agreed, I should be your husband and Lord of Langumont.”
She gaped at him. “It was my papa’s wish that we should wed?”
“Aye, my lady, and ’twas also the wish of my father that one of his sons should wed with you as well.”
“Aye, I certainly remember that incident. I met your brother Bernard, and although he was very kind…” Maris seemed to be considering her thoughts. “…I do not think we would have suited.”
“Thank fortune you did not,” Dirick said vehemently. Then he smiled. “He and Joanna are like moon-faces about each other all of the time. Completely besotted.”
“Aye,” she replied, with just as much spirit. “But of course, neither of us will ever look at the other in such a foolish way.”
Dirick couldn’t hold back a rueful laugh. “Mayhap that is true for you, my beloved, but I fear ’tis too late for me. The queen has already seen my moon-face, and it is because of her meddling, I think, that we are in this bed together.”
Her cheeks pinkened and she looked up at him almost bashfully. Then her eyes glinted with determination. “Our fathers have exacted a sort of revenge upon Michael d’Arcy, then.”
“Aye, they have. Yet, I still must see this through to its end,” he told her firmly.
“Dirick, you must take care…please,” she looked up at him so earnestly and sweetly, with tears pooling in her eyes, that he felt his heart jerk at the emotion there.
“Aye, my love, I will take care. After all,” he pulled her fingers to his lips, “I have everything to live for. I have everything I could ever want. It is a miracle to me. And I have no intention of letting it go.”
EPILOGUE
Two days later
Langumont Keep
“Come, my love.” Michael grasped Allegra’s hand and drew her up the tall, curving stairwell.
She followed him willingly—as she had ever done, and always would, until the end of time.
The tower was cool and damp. It was a part of the keep that she rarely accessed, and which normally sent chills down her spine…but today, it didn’t matter. Today, she was with Michael.
Her skirt trailed in the dust as they clambered up more steps and more steps, holding hands, silent.
When they reached the top, he opened the door and allowed her to step out onto the balcony of the tower ahead of him. She felt his strong, sturdy body behind her, solid and fearless in its warmth. The wind was stronger at this height, and the view of the blue sea sparkling to the west was expansive. The sound of the surf was lost in the breeze, lending a hollow, windy sound and giving the impression that they were separated from the rest of the world.
They were.
She looked over the lands of Langumont, seeing the village, the bailey of the keep below, noticing the thickness of the forest to the east and the varying shades of green meadow to the north and south.
She’d been happy here.
Though her heart had always been with Michael, she’d been happy. Merle had been a good husband to her. She had betrayed him in so many ways, and now he was dead…by the hand of the man she loved.
Michael had told her of his part in Merle’s death…yet, she still loved him. ’Twas her great sin, her great weakness that she would follow him willingly, anywhere, until the end of time.
“Are you frightened?” he asked suddenly, his voice rumbling in her ear.
“When I am with you—nay, never,” she told him, turning to face him. They could not be together here, she knew. This was their only chance.
“Come, Allegra, let us go.”
He took her hands in his, facing her fully, and looking down at her with those blue eyes lit with an odd, unsettling light.
She moved willingly with him to the edge of the tower’s railing, stepping up on it in tandem with him. “I love you,” she told him.
“I love you.”
And then it was over.
~~~
~*~
Read on for a sneak peek of Colleen Gleason’s Sanctuary of Roses,
featuring Lord Gavin Mal Verne and Madelyne de Belgrume…
Prologue
Tricourten Keep
England, 1132
“Come, Maddie,” Lady Anne of Tricourten urged. “We’ve only till the end of Seton’s watch at the gate.” Her voice, usually steady unless she was confronted by her husband Fantin, wavered as she glanced out the arrow-slit window in her solar.
Madelyne, though only ten, recognized the fear and desperation in her mother’s eyes, and swallowed back her own terror. If her father found them, caught them leaving…nay. She would not allow the thought into her mind. Drawing the heavy cloak about her shoulders, Madelyne caught up its overlong hem and pulled the hood to cover her hair.
Anne opened the door of her solar, and, grasping her daughter’s smaller hand in her cool one, led the way into the dark corridor. The edges of their rough woolen cloaks brushed silently along the cold stone floor, and the coarse material prickled Madelyne’s neck and wrists. A mere torch lit the end of the corridor that began at the stairs descending to the Great Hall, where the sounds of drunken revelry reverberated among the rafters.
A great lump formed in the back of Madelyne’s throat when they paused at the top of the stair. One more step and they would be in view of anyone who cared to notice two darkly-cloaked figures inching their way down the stone stairs and across the rear of the hall. Her mother’s fingers clasped more tightly around hers, hesitating…and then she stepped forward and down.
Their descent was swift as they huddled along the stone wall, trying to blend with the shadows. Once upon the floor of the hall, Anne released Madelyne’s hand and darted through a shaft of light thrown by a torch, stopping in a shadowy corner. She turned back to her daughter and gestured: Come, quickly.
Swallowing heavily, Madelyne looked out over the hall, where more flickering torches and the blazing fire at the other end lit the room enough for her to see the sweat rolling down the faces of the revelers.
Her father, Fantin de Belgrume, Lord of Tricourten, sat at the high table, holding a goblet aloft. His pale blond hair gleamed like wheat shifting in the sun, and his chill laugh sliced through the other noises to settle over Madelyne. She shrank back into the shadows when he looked toward the rear of the hall, fear rising in her throat. For a moment, all time halted and it seemed as though she could hear her heart pounding over the cacophony in the hall.
Relief washed over her when he shifted his gaze without pausing, and Madelyne suddenly became aware that her mother had moved further toward the door leading to freedom, even as she gestured for her to follow. Madelyne took a deep breath and hurried through the patch of light, gratefully melding into the dimness beyond the torch.
One of the hounds her father favored raised its head as she passed by, lifting the corner of its lip to show a sharp fang. Madelyne skirted around him, wishing she had a bone or aught to throw to the demon, and tried to ignore the low growl that rumbled in its throat. If the dog began to bark….
She forced herself to keep walking, and at last she reached a small alcove just adjacent to the door of the keep. Anne waited in this shadow, and, after a quick, hard embrace, she drew her daughter toward the large oaken door. It was slightly ajar to allow men-at-arms, hounds, smoke, and air to pass within and without the keep, and once through this entrance, they would be closer to freedom than Maddie had ever dreamed.
Thus ’twas with overwhelming relief that she followed her mother as she slipped through the opening and found herself huddled against the outside of the castle wall, blinking up at the quarter moon and starry
sky.
“Praise Mary,” Anne murmured, and, adjusting the small parcel she wore under her cloak, grasped her daughter’s hand yet again.
The walk across the bailey to the side entrance, where Sir Seton de Masin stood his watch, was short. They stopped at the edge of the pool of light that spilled onto the earth, encircling the doorway. Madelyne stood to one side as her mother spoke in hushed tones to the red-haired man. She tried to ignore the starkness on the knight’s face as he took her mother’s hands in his, and Madelyne looked away when Anne tipped her face for the man to bestow a kiss on her lips.
A kiss of peace ’twas not.
Her mother’s low tones became audible with emotion as she bid farewell to the man who would help them escape. “God be with you, Seton,” she said, and Madelyne saw her caress his face with her palm. Then, as if she could no longer bear to look upon him, Anne turned to her daughter, once again taking her hand.
The door, heavy with thick wooden planks and iron bars and studs, inched open just enough for the two figures to slip through.
“Fare thee well, my love,” Seton’s voice carried quietly on the night’s breeze. “God be with you.”
One
Ten years later
If they did not reach shelter soon, they would die.
The realization settled over him, wrapping him in calmness, even as the blood flowed from his wounds. ’Twould not be unwelcome, death, Gavin thought. His only regret would be his failure to take Fantin de Belgrume with him.
Rain poured from the gray heavens, thunder crashed with arrogance, and great, uncontrollable shivers wracked his body. The smell of blood and storms and death pervaded his nostrils. Sleepiness stole over him and his eyelids felt like massive weights.
“Gavin!”
The sound of his name, urgent, stole the calmness from him and he forced himself to sit upright in the saddle. Of a sudden, the desire to die was gone—the dark moment vanished—leaving the responsibility for the health of his knights foremost in his mind…and the bitterness of revenge burning in his heart.
“Gavin, look you there! ’Tis a gate!” Thomas Clervorne pointed with his bloodied sword. They’d not even had the time to clean their weapons, Gavin thought bitterly.
He turned in his saddle, knees pressing the shoulders of Rule, his war horse, and peered through the sheets of rain. Aye, there it was, barely visible through the trees and gray rain: a large, stone wall interrupted by a heavy gate.
“To me! Á moi!” Gavin bellowed, and the men he led—numbering only ten instead of the fifty he’d begun with—directed their weary mounts in his wake. Thomas had already reached the gate, and was pulling the rope that hung next to it as they gathered about.
The hollow sound of a bell tolling echoed, its tones eerie and distorted through the downpour. The men waited, their horses shuffling and snorting with the desire to feed and bed down. Gavin’s head lightened as blood continued to seep down his side, providing the only warmth save that of Rule beneath his legs.
“Do those within have no pity?” Thomas growled, tugging at the rope more vigorously, and again the bell sounded.
At last, just when Gavin was preparing to curse those who resided beyond the gate for their inhumanity, his glazing eyes discerned a small figure making its way toward the portcullis. He pressed Rule forward, reaching the iron bars just as its inhabitant did.
“Aye, my lords? You wish shelter? An’ who be ye?”
He saw that the figure was naught but an old crone, cloaked in dark garb and stooped with age. “Lord Gavin of Mal Verne, Lord Thomas of Clervorne, and ten men-at-arms, mistress.” He had to concentrate to keep his voice steady and strong as a flash of light before his eyes told him he was weakening further. “We have wounded among us, and beg for shelter and, if you have it, care for our ills.”
Even swallowing was painful, and, as he waited for the woman’s response, the gate seemed to tip onto its side and then right itself.
Then the gate swung open, and the woman stepped aside. “My lords, you are well come to Lock Rose Abbey,” she said in a strong voice that did not match her frail figure. “Come.”
The men filed their horses through the entrance, then waited as she slammed the gate shut behind them. She shuffled along, leading them across a large bailey that had been cleared of the forest surrounding the stone wall, and paused at an outbuilding.
“You’ll see to your own horses,” she said without preamble, “as we’ve only one marshal and she is ill.”
Gavin slid from the saddle, landing on his feet with a hard thump, and leaned against Rule. Standing made his head spin harder, and nausea well in his throat. Before he could take a step toward the stable, he felt an arm slide around his waist, bracing him. Thomas’s voice registered dimly as it snapped, “Clem, see to Mal Verne’s horse. Mistress, take us to a bed for him.”
The wound in his side stung like boiled pitch, and Gavin fought back a groan as Thomas, weak himself from his own hurts, supported him through a seemingly endless walk.
Just as he felt the final vestiges of clarity leaving, Gavin saw the pallet meant for him and allowed his knees to buckle. His last impression was of the prickly comfort of a straw-stuffed bed.
~*~
“He has no sign of fever, my lord. I’ve packed the wound with a poultice and he must rest anon.”
Gavin slowly became aware of the voices. The first was a gentle, female one, and ’twas followed by the rough, familiar one of Thomas Clervorne.
“He’ll heal, then?”
“Aye, if the fever does not come.”
Gavin tried to pry his eyelids open so that he could see the face that belonged to the silky, calm voice. She continued speaking as he struggled to focus. “Though the sword cut deep, the blood clotted well and we were able to sew the gap closed.”
At last: his lids cooperated and he focused on the face of the one dabbing something cool on his sore arm. When he saw the visage bent near his, he nearly recoiled at the shock. The face did not match the beautiful voice.
’Twas that of an old woman: a long countenance with wrinkles woven in the skin and brown spots everywhere. Her eyes were watery and gray, and the lower lids gapped away to show deep, red pockets. She wore a wimple that covered her entire head but for the face that, though horridly ugly, carried peace in its expression.
“He wakes.” This voice was old and thready, and emitted from the elderly woman’s shriveled lips.
Then two others were at his side, looking down upon him. One was Thomas, Gavin’s oldest friend, and the other was the Madonna.
Indeed, she had to be an unearthly being, for he’d never seen such beauty and serenity on the face of a mortal. Her eyes were luminous gray moonstones glowing in a perfect oval face framed by a nun’s veil. High cheekbones created smooth hollows in fair, ivory skin, unmarked but for a small freckle near one eyebrow. The mouth that curved into a pleased smile was sweetly formed of soft pink lips that were neither too narrow nor too full.
“How do you feel?” It was the voice again, the mellow, soft one to which he’d awakened. The one that fit this face. “Can you speak, my lord?”
Gavin knew what he wanted to say, but he hadn’t the energy to form the words. When she offered him a sip of water, ’twas all he could do to open his lips as she pressed a cup to his mouth. The wooden vessel felt rough against him, but the water slid, cool and smooth, down his parched throat.
“The others have been tended to.” ’Twas Thomas speaking, almost as if he knew what his lord meant to ask. With effort, Gavin turned his head toward him. “John and Robert have the fever and are being watched, but the others have lesser hurts and will most like recover fully.”
“Where are we?” Gavin forced the words from his throat, and they came forth like guttural groans.
“Lock Rose Abbey.” It was the woman—the Madonna—speaking again. “I’m surprised you found us, for we are well-hidden—as is our intent.”
Gavin vaguely remembered the cloying f
orest and how the gate to the abbey seemed to rise from nowhere. He nodded painfully, and managed to speak again. “Where is this place?”
“Deep in the forest, several leagues from Mancassel. Few there even know of our existence.”
Mancassel. Gavin’s fogged mind cleared enough for him to realize how far they’d traveled from the skirmish that had left them near death. His lips twisted.
Fantin de Belgrume could not have known they’d find shelter—he’d have expected that they’d perish in the wilds after he and his men left them for dead. Mayhaps that had been his plan: the ambush was not so much meant to destroy Gavin’s troop in the depths of the forest, but to injure them enough, and far from any assistance, that they would die while searching for shelter.
A Whisper of Rosemary (The Medieval Herb Garden Series) Page 32
