Sanctuary of Roses mhg-2

by Колин Глисон

  At his master’s high, keening cry of disbelief, Tavis froze, gaping at him with big, bowl-shaped eyes. “What is it, Master Fantin?” he asked in a thready voice.

  The vein in Fantin’s forehead throbbed furiously. Raking a hand through his hair, he looked at his assistant. “Mal Verne lives. He lives !”

  Fantin clenched his fingers around the edges of the parchment, relishing in the yield of the brittle paper beneath his anger, wishing that it was Mal Verne’s own neck beneath his nails. It could not be that he lived!

  He sucked in a deep draught of air. He must retain control of his senses and force the red that suddenly colored his vision to ease away…he closed his eyes and called upon God to send him the calmness and clarity he deserved. If he was to undertake His Will, then He must give him the tools to understand it.

  Fantin concentrated, taking two more deep breaths. The tang of smoke, and the acridity of burning pear wood and melting iron, seared his lungs, but it did not matter.

  The missive vibrated in his grip so that he could barely read the words of the remainder of the message…but when at last he returned to the paper, he snatched in his breath. He could not believe the words he saw there. He read it thrice before the shock compelled him to speak. “Mal Verne claims to have found my daughter! My daughter is alive ! It cannot be!” He stared at the paper, rereading the impossible words.

  Tavis stared at him with his wide, dark eyes. “Your daughter is alive? But…is that not good news?”

  Suddenly, at last, the familiar warmth rushed over Fantin, calming him and soothing his frayed nerves. Like a flash of lightning, a sharp thrill heightened his senses, and all at once he understood.

  The sign! ’Twas the sign he’d been praying for!

  “Rufus!” he shrieked, rushing to the chapel, “’tis the sign! My daughter lives!”

  The priest paced from the small cell, his face sober as always, his hands tucked inside his sleeves. “Ah…I have been expecting such good news. The Lord has provided and now you can see the way.”

  “Aye!” Fantin could not remember the last time he had felt so relieved, so certain of his destiny. Warmth, beauty, love…all glowed within him at the knowledge that he’d been gifted thus. He smiled beatifically, caught sight of his own reflection in the mirror across the table from him…and admired the angelic, saintly glow that reflected in his fine-boned face.

  At last.

  That God should return his daughter—the pure, innocent manifestation of his flesh, conjoined with that of his beloved wife Anne—to him now…resurrected her, after so many years…

  He was blessed. And without any doubt, he knew Madelyne would be instrumental in the creation of the Philosopher’s Stone. She was the missing piece, now returned to him.

  Of course. The warmth rushing through him was hot and full and arousing. “She has been serving God in an abbey and shall take the veil,” he explained to the priest.

  Rufus smiled. “All the better. Her devotion should not be wasted upon the needs of those sisters there—Lord Fantin, you must bring her here and she will serve God thusly for your purposes.”

  A warmth suffused Fantin as the truth of Rufus’s words broke over him. “Aye, oh, father, you have the right of it! Madelyne, sprung from my own loins and that of her mother, is indeed the purest creation on this earth. ’Tis only fit that she act as the conduit betwixt myself and my God…for through her, He will speak and show me the salvation that I shall attain with the Stone!”

  He smiled with a sudden spark of good humor. “’Twill be the greatest pleasure to welcome my daughter back to her home after so many years.”

  Six

  “Look you there, Lady Madelyne.” Lord Mal Verne pointed in a southerly direction as they reached the crest of a hill. “’Tis Mal Verne.”

  Madelyne turned obediently, and found herself looking across a small valley to another, larger hill, on which a rambling stone wall rimmed its height. Gold and black flags bearing the standard of Mal Verne fluttered over merlons that jutted like great teeth along the top of the wall. From her view, she could see the small figures of men-at-arms walking around the enclosure, and to the farthest south corner, she saw the heavy iron portcullis that blocked entrance to the bailey. The small buildings of the town clustered on a plateau below the wall, and down in the valley were healthy green fields ready to be harvested.

  Lord Mal Verne kicked Rule, the warhorse, and, as if sensing he was near home, the stallion charged off the hill. Madelyne stifled a shriek as she was jounced abruptly to one side, nearly losing her grip on his mane before catching her balance, and she closed her eyes as they headed straight down the hill. She would have begun praying aloud had Mal Verne not given a short bark of laughter and tightened his arms on either side of her.

  “Do you not fear, my lady. I have not brought you this far to have you fall beneath Rule’s hooves!”

  Madelyne pressed her lips together and sat even straighter in her seat. She would not show her fear…and she would not allow herself to fall! Those words became a chant in her mind as they careened down the hill, the other men in their party so close on their heels that she feared they’d be overturned, if not trampled, by their zealous companions.

  It was not until Mal Verne shouted a greeting that rang in her ear that Madelyne’s eyes flew open and she found that they had attained a more horizontal position. They’d covered the space between the two mountainous hills in such a short time that she was thankful anew that she hadn’t watched as they hurtled past trees and down the slope.

  “À Mal Verne!” she heard the men on the stone wall cry in response to their lord’s hail. The party of knights was close enough to the castle wall that she could see their gold and black tunics, emblazoned with the now-familiar standard, and the sleeves of their chain hauberks glinting in the sun.

  Mal Verne slowed the party to a trot as they reached the edge of the village, and Madelyne watched with interest as the peasants and tradespeople came to crowd the sides of the thoroughfare, waving at their lord. They were not fearful at all, even of the great destriers that pranced impatiently down the street—although Madelyne noted that the mothers took care that their children did not get too close to the horses.

  Vague memories of riding through the town at Tricourten stirred in her mind, and the images were of naught but empty streets and shuttered homes. ’Twas clear that Lord Mal Verne was, if not well-liked, at the least not feared by the villeins who farmed his rich lands.

  She felt movements behind her, him brushing against her back and causing her to sit further forward, as he nodded and gestured to the peasants. Though he did not stop to speak with any of them at length, he did call to several by name. She felt the weight of curious stares on her as they jounced along, and realized how odd it must seem for a nun to be sharing the saddle with their lord.

  When they reached the portcullis, it lifted quickly and noiselessly—bespeaking of the care and maintenance that obviously went into its upkeep. Although Madelyne knew little of the ways of war, she was well-educated in the management of a household, for all of the sisters shared in the tasks at Lock Rose Abbey. She knew the value of a gate that raised and lowered without hesitation.

  Then, before she had time to muse further, the party entered the bailey and rode to the massive stone keep that sat on the far end of the huge, enclosed yard. Marshals and men-at-arms swarmed the travelers and horses, accepting reins as the knights dismounted.

  Madelyne waited as Mal Verne dismounted gracefully from behind her, then stepped around to the side of the saddle over which her legs were positioned. Instead of assisting her to dismount immediately, he gathered up Rule’s reins and turned to speak with a stocky, black-haired man who looked to be perhaps a decade older than he.

  “Robert! By the looks of it, you’re fare better than the last I saw you, after that incident with the shield. Glad to see you aren’t so black and blue. This woman is Lady Madelyne de Belgrume,” he announced. “She is to be treated as
a guest, but not allowed without the keep unescorted.” Pointing a finger at a tall, blond man with a crooked nose, he commanded, “Jube, you shall be responsible for the lady’s well-being in my absence.”

  Madelyne watched silently as her accommodations were discussed as if she weren’t present. So this is how it would be in a man’s world.

  Mal Verne stood near enough to her that she could reach forward and touch the darkness of his shaggy hair. The sleeves of his mail hauberk shifted, jangling quietly as he gestured with his arm. He had not shaven for some time, and dark stubble grew over his cheeks and chin, adding sharpness to the planes of his face.

  He turned to her without warning, his stone-gray eyes locking onto her gaze for a brief moment, causing her breath to heavy. Madelyne quickly looked away, down, and found her attention focused on his booted feet. Then all at once, strong hands spanned her waist, and she was lifted up and down from the saddle with a smoothness that indicated the ease with which he handled her weight.

  Upon the ground, Madelyne staggered slightly before she gained her footing, swaying against his broad chest for the briefest of moments before she stepped back. He glanced at her as she steadied herself, and she managed a weak smile. Patricka, who, likewise had been assisted down from her mount, came to stand by her side, looking as lost and uncertain as Madelyne herself felt.

  Mal Verne turned his attention to the stocky man named Robert and, as they began to speak in low tones, they started toward the large oaken door that led to the keep.

  Madelyne and Patricka hesitated, but when the man called Jube gestured for them to follow, they linked arms and walked toward the massive entrance. Jube and a cluster of other men-at-arms traced their footsteps, while others melted away, most likely to return to their duties.

  Inside the keep, Madelyne found herself dwarfed by the high-ceilinged Great Hall and the lines of crude, log-hewn tables that filled it. For a brief moment, a shiver of remembrance flitted through her mind, bringing with it the image of the smoke- and laughter-filled hall at Tricourten on the night she and her mother had escaped. Casting a sidewise glance at the dais where the lord and his guests would sup, Madelyne almost expected to see her father sitting there with his cronies as he played the lute and sang with the voice of an angel. Her apprehension settled when she saw that the table was empty, and she silently berated herself for her nervousness.

  As long as she was in the king’s care, Fantin could not hurt her. Thus Madelyne would do whatever she must in order to remain under the king’s protection.

  Still ignored by Mal Verne and his men, she took the opportunity to study the tapestries that hung on the walls, stretching to such a height that she had to strain her neck in order to see the top of the images, and then to look around at the people scurrying about their business. The rushes beneath her feet rustled, and although she saw one mouse dashing away when his slumber was disturbed, she noted that the keep seemed as well-kept as the bailey and stone wall.

  Then, suddenly, she was aware that all were staring at her. She looked at Mal Verne, whose voice speaking her name had caused her to look up, and saw that he was giving her an impatient look.

  “My lady, do you not wish for a bath and a change of clothing before supper?”

  “Oh, aye,” she gave him a grateful smile, and was rewarded as his stone-face seemed to falter for a moment.

  Then, as if that flinch had not occurred, Mal Verne gestured with a graceful hand to very short, very round woman standing to one side. She had brilliant red hair pulled into a tight braid, with a wide yellow-white streak from her left temple along the length of the braid, which was wound into a bun. “Then you and your maid may follow Peg abovestairs.”

  Peg was at least two score years and had a motherly attitude that cloaked her like a comfortable cape. She gave a brief curtsey and waved the women behind her.

  At the top of the stone steps was a balcony over which Madelyne could look down and see into the hall, and she paused for a short moment to do so. Then, gathering the skirt of her habit, she hurried to catch up with Peg and Tricky.

  “My lady, this shall be your chamber whilst you are here.” Peg threw open a door that led to a small but well-appointed room. “My lord sent a messenger on to announce your presence, an’ we all hastened to make ready for you, just as we did the time his lordship’s cousin came to visit when the leaves were ust turning gold and brown…or, alack, was it my lord’s mother’s sister that time?…now I shall have to ask Robena on that, for I fear my memory gets a bit slow now and again.” Her rambling commentary was as welcome as the small fire that warmed the room, chill even in the midst of summer, and the large wooden tub that sat next to the hearth.

  Madelyne stepped into the room just in time to avoid being sloshed by a pail of steaming water carried by a serf. She stood back and watched as a line of servants brought more and more pails, filling the tub, and leaving several more pails filled with hot and cold water to adjust the temperature.

  Peg bustled over to the tub and, opening a small jar, poured dried flowers and herbs into the water. Then, she stood expectantly, her pudgy hands folded, and with a start, Madelyne realized she was waiting to assist her in disrobing. “Oh, nay, I do not—”

  “We shall help you to bathe, my lady,” Patricka said firmly, nodding at Peg. ’Twas as though some private message had passed between them, and before Madelyne could allow her modesty to rule, they advanced upon her and began to assist her out of her habit.

  “Lord Mal Verne sent some of Lady Mal Verne’s clothing for you to wear,” Peg explained as Madelyne stepped into the tub. “Packed as ’twere in those oaken trunks, I shook out the wrinkles when I heard that you’d be in need of them. ’Twill be quite a relief from this plain gown and veil of yours, my lady, if you don’t mind my saying so.”

  Madelyne did not know whether ’twas the sudden heat of the water or the notion that Mal Verne was married that caused her to gasp, but she ignored the sudden, inexplicable sinking of her heart and lowered herself into the rose-scented tub.

  She looked over at Peg, who was chatting on as she showed Tricky several gowns of brilliant, jewel colors. At the least, she thought wryly, Mal Verne provided well for his wife. Even from her perch in the tub, she could tell the quality of the cloth and the intricacy of the embroidery.

  She wondered, suddenly, if Lady Mal Verne, at least, was able to soften the harshness in his face and demeanor.

  “Methinks this blue for the undertunic,” Tricky was saying as she eyed Madelyne and then the cloth, and back again.

  “You are well thought,” nodded Peg, her jowls jiggling. “With her hair of such dark color, and her eyes like a pale moon—aye, she makes me think of mine own sister, whose hair was so long and thick as mine is. And my own auntie, well, ’twas her pride and joy this hair of our family, and when she had the ague, she must had it cut and how she bewailed that fate for days!”

  The two women huddled together for a moment, throwing occasional glances over their shoulders at Madelyne. Tricky’s arms gesticulated wildly, punctuating her bobbing head, and Peg nodded and murmured, nodded and tsked, and expounded on her reactions with rambling sentences of family anecdotes.

  Madelyne, a bit discomfited with what she deemed as a conspiracy against her, sank into the tub and attempted to block out the two women and their chatter. A faint, wry smile did curve her face as she succumbed to the realization that Tricky had found her mentor, and that she, Madelyne, would likely be the pawn in her learning game.

  The scent of roses filled her nose, for the first time ever not related to the duties of making rose beads. And, as if she was smelling it for the first time, Madelyne inhaled and closed her eyes, enjoying the sweetness of the floral scent. The steaming water was heavenly, such that she paused for a moment—albeit a brief one—to thank God for her safe arrival, and to contemplate whether ’twas a sin that she should enjoy such an earthly pleasure. Baths, although available at the abbey, were only occasional and never this warm a
nd sweet. Most often they were a dip in the nearby stream, or a few hands of lukewarm water.

  Tricky dug soap scented with basil and rosemary from a small crock, using it to clean under Madelyne’s fingernails and to wash the grime and sweat from all parts of her body. Even the black rose-petal stains had faded when she was finished.

  The loosing of Madelyne’s braid after two days relieved the tightness of her skull, and the pleasure-pain of it had her sighing in soft delight. How wonderful it felt when Peg began to pour warm water over her thick hair, and how much more like heaven on earth could it be when she used her strong fingers to massage her scalp!

  It was not until she stood in front of the fire, wrapped in a soft blanket, that Madelyne remembered the clothing. She held out a hand to stop Tricky as she approached with the blue undergown.

  “Nay, Tricky, I cannot wear such fine clothing. You of all know that I’m promised to our Lord God, and that I cannot in good conscience don flamboyant finery. Peg, ’tis not my place to use that which belongs to Lady Mal Verne.”

  The two women exchanged glances, and Tricky nodded as if to give Peg permission to respond. “My lady, I am sorry, but your clothing has been taken to be washed. And, ’tis the lord’s orders that you dress as befits your station, as the Lady of Tricourten. Wherever that land may be, certainly the women there do not see such simple gowns as flamboyant.” She gestured to the overtunic, which was pale blue, embroidered with gold and silver threads. “This is but a plain gown, my lady, by standards at court. And verily, you will wear aught that is more up to date when you join the king.”

  Peg sighed, smoothing a hand over the embroidery that rimmed the edges of the overtunic, her eyes taking on a far-away look. “I remember that day when mine own baby Shirl went to care for one of the queen’s ladies, and how she pored over the patterns and cloths and threads to be certain that she should dress in her finest, and that all that she brought with her for her lady was the most beautiful to be had from Lockswood, and even there at court ’twas as if she were naught but a country bumpkin. An’ how my daughter worked to learn that new fashion, worked day and night, and… ” Her voice trailed off and a look of confusion passed over her face. She glanced at the cloth she held in her hand, then at Madelyne, and the light of understanding came back into her eyes. “Ah, well, aye, my lady. You must be dressed ere supper is served, and this is all that you have to wear.”