Sanctuary of Roses mhg-2

by Колин Глисон

  Madelyne’s gaze strayed to the fine cloth, but she resolutely turned from it and walked over to the bed, where several other gowns lay strewn across it. “There must be something else that more befits a nun,” she murmured, poring over the clothing. She paused at a pale yellow gown with little frippery. “I shall wear this, for ’tis more subdued and more suited to one of God’s women.”

  “Nay, my lady,” Tricky said, resting a hand upon her arm. Madelyne turned to look at her, surprise causing her brows to rise at the formal address. “Lady,” Tricky said again with such ease, as if she had always addressed her as her better, “with all respect, you are not a nun, as yet…and you are the Lady of Tricourten. ’Tis God’s will that you are here, and God’s will that you bear the mantle of your position.”

  She showed Madelyne the blue undergown, the color of a brilliant sapphire, with delicate gold embroidery along the neckline and the laces of the tight sleeves. “That yellow will cause you to look aught but ill and sallow, whilst this blue will cause your eyes to take on its sheen. An’ the cut of this is more flattering, as the sleeves will show the fine lines of your arms and draw attention to your height.”

  Annoyed by Tricky’s sudden fashion expertise, Madelyne pursed her lips and frowned. “But—”

  “Come now, my lady,” Peg insisted, gently taking the pale yellow cloth from her fingers and urging her toward Tricky. “Though you are a bit taller than Lady Mal Verne, you are of a size. Now, ’tis not in our interest to anger Lord Mal Verne, either, so we shall fix you up rightly and send you down for supper anon.”

  With a sigh of capitulation, Madelyne acquiesced to the new-found fussiness of her maid and her mentor.

  * * *

  Her hair was black.

  “Good evening, my lady,” Gavin said as he struggled to contain his shock at the transformation of Lady Madelyne. Out of her habit and veil, and garbed in clothing that he thought had belonged to Nicola, Lady Madelyne de Belgrume was barely recognizable…and looked not the least bit nunlike.

  “My lord.” She gave a brief curtsey, bowing her head slightly, her thick, dark hair spilling over her shoulders and brushing the floor at his feet.

  Some masterful person—Peg, he realized—had taken that thick, inky river, taming it into two thick braids that pulled back from his guest’s temples…and left the rest of it to fall unencumbered down Lady Madelyne’s back. When she raised her face and reached to place her fingers on his arm, he noticed a thin, gold chain that rested on her forehead and was woven into the darkness of her braids.

  It was glorious hair.

  With a start, Gavin realized he’d frozen, and she now waited for him to lead her to the dais upon which they would sup. “Come,” he said abruptly, turning toward the high table and forcing his attention to matters at hand.

  As the most high-ranking persons in the hall, he and Lady Madelyne were the only two seated at the high table. He took the lord’s chair, the massive, walnut seat with a cushioned bench and without arms. She gathered her gown carefully, settling its folds over her legs, as she sat in Nicola’s regular seat.

  Gavin had just taken a sip from the excellent Bordeaux Mal Verne imported from Aquitaine when Lady Madelyne ruined his meal.

  “I must thank your wife for allowing me to wear her clothing,” she said, looking at him from behind her own wine glass. “Will she be joining us this evening?”

  He felt the familiar anger and a bit of humiliation rise within him, and recalled those many, many evenings when Nicola sat to his left as Lady Madelyne now did. The woman had been a viper in his world, and he’d not known it until it was too late. “I do not speak of my wife,” he said in the deathly chill voice he used whenever he meant to intimidate. “Nor does anyone else within my hearing.”

  Her eyes widened, innocent and luminous. Then she turned away, poking at the chunk of fish he’d placed in her bread trencher. “I did not mean to pry,” she said steadily, but he noticed that there was the slightest tremor to her fingers as she reached for a crust of bread. Then, with a boldness that surprised him, she firmed her lips and continued, “Whatever reason you do not choose to speak of your wife is of no matter to me, but there is no need to leap upon me over the most innocent of comments.” She did not look at him, but instead took a dainty bite of bread.

  Gavin snapped his mouth shut on the apology he’d been about to make for his sharp, hasty words. Had the wench shed her nunlike modesty along with her habit and veil? He took another sip of wine to hide his chagrin as much as the admiration he felt at her temerity.

  “I,” she continued, this time turning to look at him with a spark of fire in her cool eyes, “meant only to make polite conversation with you, my lord. Thus, I shall leave it in your hands as to whether we have a silent meal or nay.”

  If he had not seen that her hand still trembled when she reached with great casualness for her wine goblet, he might have been angry at her continued audacity. But that bit of tremor eased his ire and he merely gave her a slant-eyed look. “But you have only tried one topic of conversation, my lady. Surely you do not intend to give up on me so easily?”

  Mayhap it was the fact that he’d tamed the sharpness in his voice that prompted her to try again. However, her next words brought no more palatable a topic than Nicola had been.

  “Then, my lord, perhaps you inform me of the purpose for which the king has summoned me, and when I shall see him myself.” Again, she did not look at him, but continued to pick at her food as though uninterested in his reply.

  “If only my men were as unerring in their aim with a bow as you have been in suggesting topics of conversation that do not appeal to me!” He bit into a piece of cheese, chewed, and swallowed as he formulated his reply. “I have sent word to the king that you are in my company. As to the answers to your questions, I cannot say, but you will remain here under my guard.”

  This time Lady Madelyne looked at him. “Do you then—in the name of the king—intend to keep me prisoner here at Mal Verne? As I have seen no evidence of a writ from his majesty ordering my presence, I wonder if he is even aware of my existence. Or have you merely used his name in order to gain your will—whatever that may be?”

  Annoyance flared within him and he looked at her sharply. “That would be treason, my lady. I do not tolerate such implications by anyone, be it man or woman—particularly one who is a guest in my home.”

  “A guest?” Lady Madelyne raised her fine eyebrows, adopting an innocent posture that grated on him. “I was not under the impression that my status is that of a guest. If that is the case, then I am free to leave at my will—am I not?”

  Gavin dragged his gaze that had somehow become fastened on her shapely mouth up to glare into her eyes. “Lady Madelyne, if you were given the freedom to leave—which I will not give—you would last no more than a night without these castle walls. Do not speak of such absurdity.” He returned to demolishing his meal, certain that that would be the end of it.

  But, still, she would not relent—and her tenacity was beginning to wear upon him. “Such may have been said to my mother and myself ten autumns ago, when we left Tricourten with naught but the clothing on our backs and a few simple jewels, my lord.”

  Gavin placed his goblet very deliberately on the table and turned to face her fully. He would not allow this wisp of a woman to goad him into losing his temper—but he knew he was nearing the end of his tether. “Lady Madelyne,” he said tightly, “if it would end this discussion then, aye, I shall call you not a guest, but a hostage. Aye, a hostage of the king. And, lady, if you could read, I would show you the writ that orders me to bring you to his majesty.”

  “Very well, then, Lord Mal Verne. A hostage I am. And, as I am capable of reading not only French, but Latin and Greek, I should be pleased to peruse that writ of which you speak.” She used her eating knife to spear a piece of turbot and raise it to her mouth.

  Gavin snapped his jaws shut so hard that his jaw hurt. “Very well, my lady. On the morrow y
ou shall see your writ. And methinks I should prefer a silent meal after all.”

  Seven

  Buildings forming the town of Mal Verne lay like little studs on the plateau below the castle wall. The orange sun had lowered to just above the horizon, and thick gray clouds had begun to fill the sky. A distant rumble of thunder came on the cool night air, and far off to the north, Madelyne could see a flash of lightning illuminate the belly of a heavy cloud.

  The wind whipped up, tossing about her skirt and the hood she’d drawn over her head as she looked down from the castle wall. Jube, the tall, blond guard Lord Mal Verne had delegated to her, leaned casually against one of the merlons, talking with another man-at-arms who’d been assigned the night watch. He stood far enough away that she didn’t feel smothered, but close enough that she was aware she was not free to come and go as she pleased.

  Hostage. Madelyne clenched her fingers together under her cloak and closed her eyes. Innocent of the ways of the political world, she knew she was at a disadvantage in parrying to keep her freedom, to keep herself safe from the hands of her father. She would see that writ on the morrow, and mayhaps there would be a clue within to indicate what the king planned to do.

  A large, wet drop splashed on her face, and thunder cracked more insistently. Still, Madelyne saw no reason to take herself within the confines of the keep that had suddenly become her prison. Jube looked over at her, his face placid, and when she made no indication that she was ready to move, he returned to his conversation. The wind carried a word or two from the men to Madelyne’s ears. She heard mention of hunt and horses, and knew they discussed purely masculine matters—matters that were unfamiliar to her.

  That trail of thought brought her to that which had been hovering at the back of her mind all the evening: Lord Mal Verne. The man was harsh and rude and unfriendly, yet she still had that self-same fascination for him. Mayhap the reason lay in the fact that though he snapped and snarled, she saw beyond the hardness of his face and the steely coldness of his eyes to the depths that hinted at more than that…suffering, perhaps, or fear…

  Madelyne shook her head, dismissing those fanciful thoughts. Mal Verne was a man—a fierce, hard one, not unlike her own father—and ’twas foolish of her to think that she saw more.

  She turned to summon Jube, suddenly ready to return to her chamber and to put those thoughts from her mind, but to her surprise, he and his companion had disappeared. Turning to look behind her, thinking that mayhap they’d strolled further along the wall as they talked, she found no one. Madelyne stepped nearer to the edge of the wall and looked down into the bailey, which had become nearly deserted and quiet in the last hour.

  A movement behind her caused her to whirl, her skirts wrapping around her legs and the hood dropping from her head. “Lord Mal Verne.”

  There was no mistaking him, for even though the sun had nearly completed its drop beyond the horizon, and the moon was nowhere to be found, the light from wall sconces cast enough glow for her to recognize the form that shifted from the shadows. Tall, with thick, uncut hair that blustered in the swelling wind, he stood before her, his hands folded at the waist of his tunic. The reserved pose belied the vitality that ever exuded from him, and Madelyne, as always, felt it.

  “If you wish to jump, the deed would be better done on the east side of the wall,” he commented, stepping toward her. “There, the hill drops away to the cliffs of the sea. Rocks and the surf would make certain that the task would be complete, rather than leaving one a crippled mess.”

  “I would not jump,” Madelyne replied, all too aware of the leaping of her pulse as he came to stand beside her. “’Tis a mortal sin.”

  He looked at her for a moment, his plain, sculpted features made almost handsome by the half-light. Then, his lips—full, wide and hard—curved into the faintest of smirks. “Ah, aye. How foolish of me to forget. One can wish for death, can court it in battle or elsewhere—but one cannot take matters into one’s own hands and expect salvation.”

  Madelyne did not know how to respond to those words, for she sensed another layer to them—an almost melancholy sentiment. Instead, she continued to stare out over the darkening land.

  Mal Verne stood next to her, unspeaking. Yet she was as aware of his every breath as she was of her own pulse beating through her veins. His hand rested on the waist-high stone, and she saw how long and thick his fingers were, how the veins and tendons and scars sculpted the back of it. How solid his wrist looked next to her own dainty one.

  He broke the silence at last. “If you did not climb up here to elude Jube for the purpose of taking matters into your own hands and jumping, what was it that prompted you to come out in the midst of a gathering storm?”

  Madelyne looked at the lightning that flashed in the north, closer now, then down again at her own hand resting next to his on the wall. Slim and pale, her fingers took up barely a third of the width of one stone brick, while his hand covered nearly the whole of one. A flash of memory caught her by surprise—an image of a hand, powerful and wide as Mal Verne’s, raised in violence and darkness.

  The remembrance was so strong that she took an involuntary step backward, her hand pulling to her chest to clutch at her cloak. He turned his head quickly to look at her, question and something akin to concern flashing in his eyes. “What is it?”

  Feeling foolish at her reaction to a mere memory, Madelyne forced a smile and waved her action away. “’Twas naught but a night beetle that flew in my face,” she replied lightly. “It startled me.”

  Mal Verne looked at her curiously for a moment, then relented and allowed her out from under his delving stare when he turned to look back toward the storm. “May I escort you below to your chamber now, my lady? The lightning draws near and you are at risk at this height.”

  Madelyne arched one brow but continued to look out over the land. “And what happened to my own personal guard, Jube? Is that not his duty, my lord?”

  “I dismissed Jube, sending him to take his place out side of your chamber door.” Mal Verne’s voice rumbled low, not unlike the thunder echoing in the distance. “If you had planned to end your life thus, I preferred to be the one to witness it—as you are under my care in the name of the king.” The stress on those last words was not lost on Madelyne. In that moment, she realized she believed him when he claimed he acted in the king’s name.

  And, she also knew the odd disappointment that ’twas not his desire to seek her company that had led Mal Verne to find her on the wall. “Very well, then, my lord.” She turned abruptly to take his arm and found his stare fixed on her in such a way that caused her breath to hitch in her throat. For a moment, he was unmoving and she halted, confused and riddled with an odd heaviness in her limbs.

  The moment froze—thunder crashed behind her, lightning zinged through the clouds, the smell of rain was in the air, and the brick felt rough and hard beneath her fingers—as he reached to touch her. His hand hovered in mid-air for a second, as if he hesitated, then rested warm and heavy on top of her head. His fingers smoothed over the side of her skull, bumping over one thick braid, and slid along the heavy tresses that were tucked under her cloak.

  Madelyne hardly dared breathe. No one had touched her that way…ever. Certainly not a man. Certainly not the man to whom she now played hostage. Her heart thumped madly, but for all of that…nay, she was not truly alarmed. Why did he not frighten her—this large, stony, gruff man?

  “You have beautiful hair,” he murmured in the same low, rumbly voice he’d used a moment earlier. He stepped toward her, his presence surrounding Madelyne like a cape. She felt the wall behind her and looked up into his eyes, inscrutable in the dimness. Her heart thundered in her chest and her mouth dried as the heaviness of his gaze sent heat coursing through her.

  Then, suddenly, it was as if something snapped. He fell back, his hand slamming to his side, and the urgency gone from his gaze. “’Twould have been a sin had you cut it.” His words were fact of the matter, and ma
de in a sharp, almost cutting voice. “Now, lady, may I take you below where you will be protected from the storm?”

  Her head spinning, and her face warm with the flush of mortification, Madelyne could do naught but nod. Disdaining his proffered arm, she turned her back to him and, clutching a handful of skirt, started toward the stairs.

  * * *

  ’Twas just as well that he did not sleep well that night, Gavin would realize later with some relief.

  This first night back in his own chambers should have been one of comfort and rest. For the first time in many a moon, he was not forced to unroll a traveling pallet onto cold, hard ground, or to sleep on a lumpy, hay-filled pallet in a chamber he shared with a myriad of other snorting, snoring, snuffling men.

  Rosa had bathed him and would have serviced him further had he wished, but Gavin declined, desiring only his own company. He stood at the window slit, clad in his chausses with loosed cross garters, watching the lightning brighten the sky as if it were midday. The wall beneath his fingers shuddered as thunder crashed above.

  Mayhap he should have availed himself of Rosa’s offer, else he would not have made such a fool of himself upon the wall with Lady Madelyne…and likely he would be sleeping soundly instead of watching the rain trail off from its brief, thrashing downpour.