Sanctuary of Roses mhg-2

by Колин Глисон

  * * *

  “De Belgrume bested you?” The incredulity in Henry Plantagenet’s voice caused even the scribe who sat in the corner of the royal chambers to look up. “Mal Verne?”

  “Aye.” Gavin’s mouth firmed in annoyance at the reminder of his own incompetence even as the king drew his red-gold eyebrows together. The taste of defeat sat heavily upon him, as well as the ferocity to right that wrong. “I do not know how he learned of our planned assault at Mancassel, my lord, but ’twas obvious that he did, for we were set upon in a dense forest several leagues from there. No one could have known we would be there at that time. I begin to wonder if I have a spy in my midst, or whether de Belgrume is simply the most fortunate man alive. If I had not sent half my men on ahead to Mancassel that morn, we would easily have held our own, and I might now be presenting him to your Majesty.

  “But, in the end,” Gavin continued, “’tis de Belgrume who has suffered the greater loss—for I still live, though he surely believes I am dead.”

  “Aye, you have the right of it. His sword has long itched for you, and yet you continue to deny him that satisfaction. But still he makes war upon you!” Henry slammed his jewel-encrusted goblet on a nearby table as he strode past it. “’Tis the reason I gave you the task—he must be contained and he has continued to engaged you for years. It’s only you who can put an end to this, Mal Verne. And I fear it is because he’s never forgiven you for being Nicola’s husband. Nevertheless, bring him to our custody, or when next you meet him in battle, finish the bloody deed!” The king turned, seemingly ignoring the fact that he’d just ordered one of his vassals to murder another one. He paced back toward Gavin, who stood next to a small table laden with bread, cheese, and wine.

  “You know I should like naught better than to bring de Belgrume to his knees. He’s taken much from me, and all in the name of his unholy work.”

  “’Tis unfortunate that the Church doesn’t consider the study of alchemy blasphemous,” Henry grumbled, snatching up a piece of soft white goat’s cheese. “If it did, then at the very least we could excommunicate de Belgrume for it…and at the best, he could be tried for treason and executed.” His brows furrowed as he brandished the cheese. “Then I would be rid of him.”

  “Even the Pope sees no harm in one seeking the Holy Grail through alchemy…yet de Belgrume’s obsession has completely betaken his mind. His obsession has tipped him into madness.” This was a familiar conversation, one they’d had many times over in shared frustration.

  “When he first came to our court, he didn’t strike me as one so obsessed,” the king mused.

  “Nay, ’tis true. When he first became known to me, and to Nicola”—Gavin did not pause at his wife’s name, and ’twas a miracle it did not stick in his throat—“I bethought the man to be only an empty-headed charmer with a well-hidden temper. An odd man, but a harmless one. Yet, in these last six years, he’s come to carry an eerie light in his eyes more oft than not.” Gavin helped himself to a piece of pale yellow cheese. “I believe that the secrets of the Holy Grail continue to elude him, just as my own death has…and it’s those failures which have ushered him into madness.”

  “Aye…de Belgrume laid his claim against you when he tempted Nicola from your side, long before this lunacy became madness. And then again there is that matter of your cousin’s betrothed—Geoffrey? Geoffrey of Lancourt, was it?”

  “Gregory, my liege. His name was Gregory, and, aye, he was betrothed to my cousin Judith. Another innocent lost because of de Belgrume. Aye…’tis as if he and I were fated to oppose the other in all ways.” Gavin swallowed the mellow cheddar. “But he’ll not best me again. I believe I’ve found a way to stop him.” He slipped his hand into the leather pouch that hung at from his tunic.

  Henry barely paused in his great, vigorous strides that brought him past Gavin once again. “And how is that?”

  Gavin fingered the rough, unevenness of the beads in his pouch. “I mislike to speak of it yet, my lord. Until…until I’ve put all plans into place.”

  “I do not rightly care,” Henry fumed, “as long as that man is brought under control, made to pay his taxes, and swear his fealty to me—I do not care how you do it!”

  As always, it came down to the funds in Henry Plantagenet’s mind. Despite the fact that there were other dangers in having a madman as one of his vassals. Gavin said naught but, “Aye, my lord. I shall.” He swallowed the last of the wine in his cup. “By your leave, your majesty, I’ll excuse myself to see to those arrangements.”

  “Be off.” Henry waved a hand and returned to his pacing. “Keep us informed of your progress.”

  “Aye, my lord. Thank you, your majesty.”

  Gavin took his leave of Henry, relieved that the private meeting was over.

  It had been no easy task to admit his resounding defeat to the king, but now he would redouble his efforts to stop Fantin de Belgrume. He’d declined to describe his stay at the abbey, and the hasty, manipulative dismissal those nuns had given him and his men—for that, too, stuck in his craw that they should be treated with such indignity.

  Fortunately, the night in which he, Thomas, and the others had awakened in a glen with their mounts tethered nearby had been dry and warm—else they may have taken ill yet again. Gavin knew they had been drugged, and, indeed, knew the perpetrator of the deed. The serene Madonna-nun, who had so innocently given him the goblet from which to drink, had stayed at his side, watching him with luminous gray eyes while her potion did its work. Though he’d recognized a certain steeliness under her calm demeanor, he’d never thought to be the recipient of such callousness from his own healer.

  Afterward, he may have thought all of it no more than hallucination, had he not found her prayer beads tucked into his pouch. An’ it hadn’t been until some days later ere he remembered the markings on her wrist and realized what that might mean.

  He would seek out Judith, who served in the queen’s court, to be certain his suspicions were accurate.

  As always when he meant to speak with his cousin and childhood playmate, Gavin’s heart weighed heavier. He relived again those moments when Judith realized what hurt he’d caused her. Those blue eyes had pooled with angry, accusing tears, and her long fingers had clenched into her own arms, drawing prickles of blood. She had bid him remove himself from her sight.

  Ere that time they’d spoken but briefly, and though the accusation was no longer in her expression, he could see sorrow and pain still mirrored there. He grieved with her, but he could do naught about putting the anguish there except to have vengeance upon Fantin de Belgrume in her name as well as his own.

  * * *

  When Gavin, Lord of Mal Verne, was announced in the queen’s court, the gossip and giggles halted abruptly and the ladies turned to watch in fascination as the tall, rugged man strode into the chambers. He went directly to Eleanor, kneeling to kiss her ring, and when a slight smile cracked his hard face at something she murmured to him, it was well-noted.

  Judith, who sat in a nearby corner embroidering on a wedding gown for one of the ladies, stood as he rose from posturing over the queen’s hand. She walked quickly to him, hoping to impress upon him her pleasure at his visit. Since she was very young, they’d been friends—although Gavin was nearly seven years older than she. He’d fostered under her father’s care, and Gavin had been the elder brother she’d never had. This rift between them had caused her nearly as much grief as Gregory’s death.

  “Gavin!” She smiled and stretched out her hands to him, ignoring the interested looks cast from the other ladies.

  Mal Verne had a reputation at court that caused a combination of attraction and trepidation among the ladies—they either discussed ways in which to breach that iron-like armor in order to captivate his heart, or ’twas declared that he had no heart to conquer. He turned, and though she had warmth and welcome radiating from her body, she saw that hesitation and apprehension still swam in his eyes.

  “Lady Judith,” he
said formally, lightly taking her fingertips in his large, scarred hands. “You look well, as always. How do you fare?”

  Disappointment swelled through her. He looked haggard and hard, his face set as if in stone, his gray eyes cool and flat as marble. ’Twas as if he allowed any emotion to come to bear, he would crumble.

  Judith squeezed his hands, trying as always, to show that she’d forgiven him for that day years before…and, as always, he did not seem to comprehend, remaining remote and cool. “I am well, of course—how could I not be, here with the queen?”

  She slipped a hand through the crook of his elbow, drawing him away from the curious ears and eyes of the ladies-in-waiting. “But you…Gavin, have you been ill?” She sat on the cushioned bench in a small alcove and looked up at his towering figure.

  After a moment of hesitation, he lowered himself to sit next to her. “Naught but a small slice in my side from de Belgrume’s sword,” he said dismissively. “’Twas tended by a nun in a nearby abbey.”

  “You look weary.” She tried again to bridge the span betwixt them.

  “I traveled from York, and I have not rested ere I left. ’Tis no more than that.” He formed his lips into a half-hearted smile. “Judith, I came only to ask of you some information—I do not wish to keep you from your duties, or your friends.”

  She swallowed and looked away. If only he’d let his guard relax, and put aside his feelings of guilt, he would see that she was pleased at his visit instead of being overset by it. Since Papa’s death, Gavin was her only living relative, her only family…and he’d refused to acknowledge it since Gregory’s death for fear of shaming her. “I would be most pleased to help you if I am able, cousin.”

  “You were fostered for a short time with de Belgrume’s daughter, were you not?”

  “Aye, Gavin, I know that I have spoken of that year in Kent on occasion. I was only twelve summers, and she no more than ten. She was there for only five moons before he sent for her to return to Tricourten. She did not wish to go.” Judith clenched her fingers as she recalled the deathly whitening of her friend’s face at the message. Though Madelyne spoke little of her father, ’twas obvious she disliked—even feared—him. “’Twas only some moons later that I learned she and her mother had drowned in the river near Tricourten.”

  “Drowned. Aye, that was the story I recall hearing as well.” Something in Gavin’s eyes gave Judith pause, and she looked at him more closely.

  “What is it?”

  “Did you not speak to me of an odd marking on her arm? I recall your musings once that the little girl had some unusual spots near her wrist.”

  Judith nodded. “Aye. Three moles near her wrist, just here.” She demonstrated on her own flesh. “When she first came to Kent Castle, one of the maidservants made mention of it and spread the talk that mayhaps she was a witch, with such markings. But that notion was soon dispelled, for Madelyne was such a kind and sweet girl that none could think ill of her.”

  It seemed that a glint of grim humor flashed over Gavin’s face at that, but ’twas gone so quickly that Judith was sure she had imagined it. He spoke again. “And how exactly were those markings placed?”

  She showed him: one mole atop two that were aligned, creating the shape of a small, tight triangle. There was such satisfaction in his face that she suddenly realized what he was about. “You do not mean that she lives?”

  His brows drew together in a sudden show of ferocity such that Judith was taken aback. “Aye, the wench does live. And it shall be through her that I’ll at last get to Fantin.”

  “You’d not hurt her!” Judith forgot herself and the fragility of the tenuous bond between them and clutched at his powerful arm. Insult flashed over his face at her words, and she berated herself for causing it. But she’d not see another woman, especially Madelyne de Belgrume (if ’twas truly her of whom he spoke) hurt.

  “Nay, Judith, I’d not hurt her.” His voice was gruff as he closed his fingers over her hand to remove it from his arm. “But she will be a means to bring Fantin to heel.”

  * * *

  The rough stones ground into his aching knees, but Fantin de Belgrume delighted in the discomfort. He would bear any such penance or pain whilst he prayed—for any distress he suffered now would be well repaid when his work was completed. Indeed, Fantin preferred to pray among the evidence of this work, there on the bare floor, within the sight and smell and feel of it, rather than in the chapel.

  He twined his fingers together in supplication, finishing the hour of prayer that was as much a part of his work in the laboratory as the formulas and tonics and metallic brews were. Fantin began and ended every session in his laboratory in concert with God, knowing that without His guidance, he would never find the formula he sought…which had been promised him.

  ’Twas fitting, that he should be the one to receive the secret once given to the Magdalen—the fascinating, sinful woman who appeared as three different ladies in the Gospels: Mary of Magdala, Mary, the sister of Lazarus, and the woman who anointed Christ’s feet with her tears and wiped them dry with her hair.

  She was a woman who atoned for her sins—a wealthy woman, just as Fantin himself was wealthy. A wealthy woman who sinned through sexual pleasure…just as Fantin did. The woman from whom Christ had expelled seven demons.

  Legend had it that this woman’s bones—the bones of the Whore Saint, as Fantin preferred to think of her—were interred near Vézelay, in France. Coincidentally, it was the village near where his mother hailed, and was thus cause for her devotion to the Magdalen. Legend foretold that the blood of the woman saint ran in Fantin’s own veins—and he knew that was the reason God had chosen him.

  Pulling to his feet, relishing the pain that shot down his left leg and knowing that soon it would never bother him again, Fantin drew in a deep breath of pleasure and joy. The stale, earthy smell of the below-stairs chamber tinged his nostrils, and he inhaled deeply, drawing its energy into his being.

  ’Twas not a pleasant smell, that of brewing leaves, burning flesh and molten metal, he allowed—in fact, it was enough to curdle one’s belly—but God had put it on His earth apurpose. Every aspect of His creation, every being, every creature served a role in God’s world…and Fantin himself served the greatest of these.

  He smiled, thinking on that as he returned to the table where the last task he’d been involved in—crushing the smooth, silky bark of a birch tree with flakes of silver and bronze metals—remained half-completed.

  For years, he’d sought the secret of the Grail: perfect combination of chemistry that would create the substance whose mere touch would give him Immortality. It would change any metals to gold.

  It would create for Fantin a life of power under which to serve God.

  He sought and studied and prayed to determine the exact amounts of each element that would be required to complete the ancient process. Metals, wood, earth, water…fire…all or some of these elements would someday cohese, forming that miracle which Fantin sought—that miracle which had been promised him by his bloodline: the miracle of the Holy Grail and what some called the Philosopher’s Stone.

  Next to the bowl with curling birch bark and metal flakes, the corpse of an adder oozed blood into another bowl—a metal one, to hold the rich, wine-like liquid without absorbing its essence. Another element added to the mix…mayhap, it would be the answer this time.

  The adder, Fantin reflected wisely, was the symbol of Eve’s temptation, and a fitting conduit in his work bent on purification and transfiguration.

  His laboratory, dug beneath the stone floor of Tricourten’s Great Hall, had been Fantin’s refuge and salvation since he realized he was God’s chosen, and most especially since the loss of his beloved wife and daughter. Three long tables lined the chamber, which had more generous lighting than the hall above, due to fifty pitch torches lit by Tavis every morn and kept burning until late in the night.

  Neat stacks of bowls—of every type of wood, rock, and metal—heaped at
the end of each table. Goblets, skins, boxes, knives, pincers, spoons…all rested in the spot allotted to each of them, always arranged in a manner that would be most pleasing to God. Jars and pots of calendula, rosemary, woad leaves, belladonna, bergamot essence, dog’s grass, ragwort, and hundreds of other useful plants sat on shelves against the large stone wall near the metal chains and restraints. He had taken care that the shelves remained well out of reach of the unfortunates who might make use of those chains—he did not wish to have his herbalry dashed to the floor by a disturbed or frightened guest.

  Fantin used a stick to prod the small fire burning in a large metal cauldron set into the wooden table. The bones of the hare he’d skinned earlier had turned to ash among the sticks from an apple tree, and the charred wood glowed a wicked orange on the underbelly of the pot.

  “My lord.”

  Fantin looked over at the berobed priest, who had just emerged from the tiny chapel built into the corner of his laboratory. His breathing quickened and sweat dampened his palms. He moved from the table toward the monk. “Father, have you word?”

  Father Rufus, slender and thin-fingered, bore a sober look upon his narrow face. Weariness lined his cheeks, and the pasty whiteness of his skin bespoke of his many fortnights below-ground. “I’ve prayed long and hard and have at last received the answer which you seek.”

  Fantin gripped the stick, his fingernails digging into his callused palm, his breathing quick and shallow. “Aye, Father, speak! What is it that I must do to bring God’s blessing upon me and revive the Philosopher’s Stone?”

  “You must continue with your work,” Rufus told him. “God will not make clear the way until you have shown you are indeed fit for the deed. You must practice your work, you must continue to rid the world of its evils and temptations. You must study the writings of the ancients and you must continue to seek purification and transfiguration.”

  The dry wood cracked in Fantin’s hand. “Is there naught more you can tell me, Father? I have been working for nearly twelve summers. Twelve summers, I have known I was the one chosen…and yet, I have not attained that promise. When shall I complete my life’s work to be pure and holy and one with God?”