Sanctuary of Roses mhg-2

by Колин Глисон

  “I do not know how that particular story came about—I was only ten summers, and there was much my mother did not tell me. ’Tis likely the man-at-arms who helped us to escape created the tale of our drowning.”

  “Escape?”

  “Aye, ’twas an escape from my father.” He felt her move against him as she drew in a deep breath. “My father would fly into obscene rages when he prayed, and when he did, he oft beat and whipped my mother. One can understand why she would seek to escape him and that life…and of course, she would not leave me behind.”

  Gavin fought back a resurgence of loathing for Fantin de Belgrume as he raked a hand through his shaggy, overlong hair. Any man who would hit a woman was a coward, though verily there were many who did. There was no law against a man beating his wife—she was his property and his to do with as he wished—but Gavin could not stomach the thought of raising a hand to a weaker being.

  Regardless, de Belgrume must have struck out at his wife once too often. Yet, ’twas not a common thing, women leaving their husbands—for there were few places for a gentlelady to go. And if a woman did leave her husband, she could be rightfully returned to him.

  And, Gavin reminded himself ruefully, what was seen through the eyes of a ten-year-old girl could be misconstrued and misunderstood. If there was a man-at-arms who dared to assist in their escape, likely that man had a deeper, more intimate involvement with the lady of Tricourten than he should.

  Gavin’s mouth twisted and his chin jutted forward in remembrance of how it felt to be a husband who had been betrayed. ’Twas not any mean feat to comprehend how a man could be driven to such rage as to hit his wife.

  But how did they come to the abbey, and what of the mother?

  He leaned forward again in order to speak over the sound of thumping hooves and the ebullient conversations of his men. Her veil slapped into his face again, and he had the urge to yank it from her head so that his vision would not be obscured…and so that he could see the color of her hair.

  Gavin sat back, upright, without asking his question. The color of her hair ? From where had that thought come?

  Then, as if that wayward notion suddenly opened a gate of awareness, he became conscious that her round bottom was nestled between the juncture of his legs…and that her breasts rose and fell with the rhythm of her breathing just above where his arms enclosed her slim body…and that if he were to move his leg, it would brush against her thighs.

  Jesù , the woman was a nun! He scowled, annoyed with his wandering thoughts, and spoke to Lady Madelyne—Sister Madelyne, he’d best remember—this time without leaning forward. “And your mother? What befell her?”

  “Mama died from a fever two autumns after we arrived at the abbey.” He felt the slightest shift in her, a tensing, almost imperceptible.

  “Where do we travel?” Madelyne’s question, her first words to him that were unprompted, was so unexpected that he answered without thinking about why she changed the subject.

  “We are a day’s journey from my holdings at Mal Verne. Anight we shall sleep at a monastery near York.” Though he had used the king’s name to impress upon Madelyne the importance of her compliance, Gavin did not plan to make haste to Henry’s side. In fact, the king had planned to leave Westminster in the week since Gavin himself took his leave. Knowing that the royal party traveled quickly and often unexpectedly, Gavin knew ’twas more efficient to send word to Henry and await his instructions, rather than attempt to track him down. As well, he’d not been to Mal Verne for nearly five moons, and ’twas nigh time he stayed there for a fortnight or more to see how his steward fared.

  “Will we arrive anon? I fear my maid is becoming weary.” Madelyne pointed with a black-stained hand to the pair on the destrier that rode just in front of them.

  Gavin looked and saw that the young woman called Patricka had slumped to one side in Clem’s arms, and that he looked as uncomfortable as she did. Urging Rule forward with his knees, he approached them and called to his man. “Do you wish to put her with someone else for a spell?” He looked closer at the young woman, whose face was upturned and her neck propped on Clem’s meaty arm.

  Patricka’s round, cheery face was slackened in sleep, and her apple cheeks jounced slightly with each pace of the stallion. Her mouth, pursed into a berry-like swell of pink, parted just enough for a low snore to come forth, and her tip-tilted nose flared with each audible breath.

  “Nay, my lord. There is no need to awaken the maid.” Clem responded with a note of indignance, as if his vanity had been bruised by Gavin’s suggestion that he could not manage the young woman.

  “As you wish.” Gavin raised an eyebrow, but forbore to comment further. “The monastery is no more than a half league ahead, and we will soon find our beds.”

  * * *

  Madelyne forced her stiff legs to move. She could not recall ever being in such pain as she was, having spent much of the day in a saddle. Her back hurt from the effort of remaining sword-straight so that she would not brush up against Lord Mal Verne, and her arms ached from clutching the pommel.

  She was grateful, however, that he’d chosen a monastery for their place to rest, as she was in deep need of a chapel, and some moments of peace.

  ’Twas after their meal—an unexciting affair, much plainer than that which had been served at Lock Rose Abbey—and after seeing that Tricky had slumped off to sleep in the women’s quarters, that Madelyne had slipped from the room to find the chapel. One of the elder monks had pointed it out to her earlier, and now she crept like a wraith to its sanctuary.

  Candles burned, filling the air with the smell of tallow and smoke, casting a warm yellow glow over the small room. Sinking to her knees on the hard stone floor—preferable than the wooden kneelers for keeping herself awake at this late time—Madelyne sought to find the words of prayer.

  But, for the first time in her life, she could not find them.

  Instead, she knelt, there in the presence of God, cloaked in her certainty that He heard and knew her random thoughts…and became lost in a whirlwind of images and reflections.

  Had it only been this morn that she’d risen, as if it were any other day? Here, now, she found herself in the company of a strange man—one who stirred her with his strength and awed her with his control and authority—and who escorted her to the presence of the king.

  She wondered how Anne fared, and if she worried her daughter would betray her presence. A tear stung her eye as she remembered the farewells they’d shared. Anne had wanted to go with her, but Madelyne, knowing how fragile her parent was, and that she was still haunted by the nightmares of her husband’s abuse, had insisted that she remain at the abbey. Yet Madelyne would not have prevailed if Mother Bertilde hadn’t intervened and insisted that Anne remain. Madelyne was relieved, for she knew her mother’s constitution was not the heartiest…and she did not wish to worry about her mother’s condition whilst she managed whatever it was that awaited her at the king’s court.

  What did it mean that she was called to the side of the king? Verily, he could not mean to send her back to her father. A sudden fear squeezed her middle. Why would he not? What other reason would there be that he ordered her to attend him? Nausea roiled in her stomach.

  Dear God, I prithee, do You not send me back to my father. My Father in Heaven…Blessed Virgin…have mercy on me! Suddenly, the words came with fervor, and Madelyne opened her eyes to look up at the wooden crucifix and prayed.

  Her thoughts shifted then again. And this man…this man who took her, who had somehow identified her… Heavenly Father, protect me from him. I will make my promise to You, speak my final vows with no further delay if You see fit to return me to the Abbey.

  Even as she prayed these platitudes, Madelyne knew she had to put aside the strange, bubbling feelings that Gavin of Mal Verne evoked in her. He could mean naught to her.

  In sooth, she had no desire to feel for him, to live in his world. The Abbey allowed her the freedom to learn and to exi
st almost as a man, though cloistered. And now, this man threatened the path that she had followed for a decade, merely by appearing in her life with his power and command. She’d begun already to forget the admonishments her mother had impressed upon her, the warnings of the controlling, all-powerful hold a man had on a woman. Fascination and a deep, stirring need to know him had intervened quietly and subtly, and now Madelyne feared she would be lost.

  Her hand shook as she remembered the fluttering in her belly as she sat encased in his arms, the horse jolting her against him with perfect rhythm until she had forced herself to sit uncomfortably upright. The smell of leather and the unfamiliar scent of maleness, of sweat and horse and clean chain mail, still lingered in her memory, as did the image of his strong, tanned hands holding the reins in front of her.

  Madelyne took a deep, shuddering breath. She could not allow herself to feel this way. Any emotion toward this man was naught but her own naiveté, and was bound to be naught but a weak battering ram slamming against the stone wall of an arrogant, unfeeling man.

  “What sin could you have committed this day that should bring you here such a late hour?”

  Madelyne whipped her head around as her heart leapt into her throat. ’Twas as if her thoughts had conjured up the man, and now he stood just in the doorway of the chapel. Her limbs jittering from the startle, and her stomach roiling with guilt at being caught thinking of him, she pulled herself to her feet with slow, deliberate movements.

  “Sin?” she asked calmly, tucking her hands into the sleeves of her gown to hide their trembling. “Nay, ’twas not a sin about which I spoke to God,” she lied, mentally noting that she had yet another reason to seek a confessional anon. “’Twas for the soul of men like yourself, who have the hearts and lives of a warrior, and live only by bloodshed and power, and who destroy the lives of others without thought.” She spoke flippantly, carelessly, of her own situation, so as to seem undisturbed. But when she saw his face blanch, she realized she had struck him as if with the self-same sword he carried in his belt.

  His face hardened, and in the flickering light of the chapel, it settled like stone in an ominous mask, and for a moment, she was afraid. Then, she saw the pain under the steeliness in his eyes, and she closed her eyes briefly as her fear settled.

  “Oh, my lady—Sister—’twas not without thought that I came to draw you from the abbey. ’Twas only after much thought that I chose to…destroy your life, as you have stated so bluntly.”

  “I did not mean to offend, my lord,” she spoke quickly, unable to hold back the honest response to his obvious hurt. The first time she’d seen a change in that stony expression. “I truly do pray for your soul, and that of others like you.”

  A bitter laugh grated in the stillness. “Aye, my soul is indeed in great need of such concern.”

  He stepped toward her, and she had to make a conscious effort not to retreat. “Now, my lady—Sister Madelyne—we are up with the sun and in the saddle anon, and I shall not be as accommodating as my man Clem was to your maid if you should collapse in exhaustion. ’Tis time to return to your bed.” He looked at her closely. “And do you not wander at night alone, else you wish to find yourself in need of more than a chapel for protection.”

  His meaning dawned on her, and she looked up at him in shock. “But, my lord, your men would not—”

  “Only a fool believes he knows what a man would or would not do, especially when confronted with a beautiful woman.”

  Madelyne’s heart bumped out of rhythm, then realigned itself. He did not mean it, she knew, that she was a beautiful woman. He only meant to warn her of her carelessness. And, indeed, she had been foolish to wander unescorted through the monastery. “I will return to my bed, then, my lord.”

  Lord Mal Verne stepped toward her and, to her surprise, offered her his arm. “And I will escort you so as to assure myself that you return unharmed. And that you plan no further tricks.”

  She reluctantly slipped her fingers around his forearm as she remembered seeing her mother do many years ago at Tricourten. Although her hand barely rested there, she was acutely conscious of the feel of the well-woven linen of his sleeve, and the steadiness of his arm beneath it. Her skirt brushed against his legs as they walked at a comfortably brisk pace back to the women’s chambers.

  When they reached the entrance to the chambers, Mal Verne stopped, pausing in front of the door, but making no move to open it. He looked down at her as she pulled her hand from his arm, and Madelyne found herself trapped by his gaze. Something glittered there, in the depths of his eyes, and it made her unable to breathe as they stood in a lengthening silence.

  “Do you ever wear your veil—even to sleep?” he asked finally, reaching out a hand as if to touch it.

  Unsettled by his odd question, Madelyne looked away, breaking their eye contact and the tension between them. His hand dropped back to his side, but he continued to look down at her. “Nay, my lord.” She stepped back from him and raised her face to look up at him again, confused by his words.

  She was shocked when his mouth curved into the slightest of smiles, chagrin lighting his eyes. “I have always suffered from the basest of curiosities…and I merely wondered at the color of your hair, that which you keep so well-hidden.” Then, a flash of horror widened his eyes, but was immediately gone to be replaced by familiar, hard cynicism. “Unless ’tis the custom of the nuns at Lock Rose Abbey to shave their heads.”

  “Only those who have taken their final vows partake of that custom,” Madelyne replied, suddenly glad that she had not yet done so. “My head is not shaved. And my hair is dark.” She knew that only because it was long enough that the heavy braid she wore fell over her shoulder down to her waist, for she’d not seen herself in a looking glass since arriving at the abbey.

  He stilled. “You are not a nun?”

  “I will be a nun when I am returned to Lock Rose Abbey,” she told him firmly, hiding her clenched fingers in the folds of her gown.

  “Aye. When you are returned to the abbey.” He turned abruptly and opened the door to her chamber, gesturing for her to enter. “I shall see you on the morrow, Lady Madelyne. I wish you a well-deserved night’s slumber.”

  * * *

  Fantin was mixing healing earth, dry apple wood ash, and chipped fragments of rubies when the sign he’d been praying for became known to him.

  “My lord,” the squire said nervously, executing an impeccable bow, “this missive has just arrived.”

  Turning away from the table at which he worked, Fantin dunked his hands into a small basin of water he kept for such a purpose. He did not abide dirt under his fingers, or stains on his clothing, or spills on his floor or tables—and most definitely did not allow his correspondence to have ink smears or blood specks.

  Drying his pink, clean hands on one of the many cloths he kept about for that purpose, he glanced at the polished silver mirror that hung between two of the brightest torches. His handsome face—the one that drew women to him in embarrassing droves—was devoid of soot streaks, and his shining wheat-colored hair lay in gleaming waves, framing his face. ’Twas his one vanity—his hair. He did not restrain the thick, lustrous strands that Nicola had claimed reminded her of gilded moonbeams, despite the hazard it portended by oft falling into his face whilst he worked. Fantin was confident God would forgive him this one transgression, as it was such a minor trespass when one considered other sins—such as adultery and murder and slovenliness.

  After assuring himself that his appearance was pleasing, he strode toward the boy, noting that his knees were fairly knocking at the thought of interrupting his master at work. Relieving the lad of the heavy parchment, Fantin deigned to bestow one of his warm smiles upon the boy, along with a nod of thanks. ’Twas thus to his private amusement that the boy fairly fled the room, relief gusting in his wake.

  “The boy was like to piss his pants whilst coming here belowstairs, fearing to disturb your work, my lord,” commented Tavis, his assistant�
�a slender, handsome man, not so much older than the squire who’d just fled the laboratory. He stood on the other side of the heavy wooden table, stirring a deep bowl of violet liquid that steamed and stank of belladonna.

  “’Tis not so true, for he knows that should a message be delayed, he would find himself in worse straits than if he disturbed me at work.” Fantin chuckled damply. “’Twas one of the first lessons you yourself learned, was it not, Tavis?”

  Returning his attention to the missive, Fantin glanced at the seal and excitement surged through him. He resisted the urge to beckon Rufus from his incessant praying in the chapel—after all, should God speak, Fantin was determined that Rufus be available to listen.

  He knew what this message contained, and if he pulled the priest from his holy duty, Rufus would only admonish him for what he’d called his obsession with Mal Verne. But now, at long last, that obsession had closed with Mal Verne’s death, and Fantin could focus his complete attention on the purification of himself and preparation for the formula for the Philosopher’s Stone. It was the sign he’d been awaiting.

  “Who sends the message?” Tavis looked like an eager pup as he elbowed the bowl, sloshing the smoking liquid over the side. Dismay pinked his face as he grabbed a cloth to sop up the spill.

  “Take care, you fool!” Fantin snapped, ire rising at the young man’s clumsiness that seemed to rear its head at the least thrice per day. “I do not wish to have pig’s blood and belladonna all over the floor of my chamber!”

  His annoyed eased as he looked at his assistant, who’d cleaned up the mess and now had appropriately downcast eyes. Tavis might be overly eager, and more than a bit clumsy, but he was completely devoted to Fantin and his work and that in itself was worth the trouble of cleaning up after his ineptness.

  “The message is from Rohan, the man I have in Mal Verne’s employ.” He broke the seal and began to scan the parchment as he continued to speak. “I expect this to be the news that—” Fantin choked off, his eyes bulging with incredulity and then in bare shock. Hot fury rose in him, heating his face and causing the hand that held the missive to shake violently.