by Колин Глисон
A sudden gust of wind buffeted Madelyne’s shortened gown and caused the flames to billow more furiously. She looked at the next home in line for the fire, and saw that it too would be up in smoke shortly. Scanning the line of houses that would be the next victims of the fire, she saw they were built so close together that the chain would continue, flattening most of the village if the flames were not subdued.
Madelyne looked over at the first of the buildings to catch fire, and saw that the line of bucket-passers had adjusted their efforts from that one to the others, since it was long past saving. They seemed to be able to do little to contain the blaze. Mal Verne would awaken, God willing, to find that his whole village had burned.
Suddenly, just as she was turning away to join the group of men carrying the injured up to the keep, Madelyne had an idea. Grabbing Clem’s arm, she spoke rapidly into his face, glad to see that he had seemed to recover from his rescue mission in the collapsed building.
“If the fire is not stopped, the whole town will burn,” she told him. “It leaps from house to house, and we cannot stop it. Why do you not destroy the next two houses so that the flames have nowhere to go, and then they will be contained.”
He looked at her as if she were mad, but then a dawning light crept over his face. “Aye, my lady, ’tis a good thought! It is too bad for those who live in those houses, but ’tis a better option than seeing them burn.” His voice, though rough and raspy from smoke, showed his enthusiasm for the idea.
She started to resume her walk up the path to the walls, and he stopped her with a brief, gentle hand on her arm. “Thank you my lady, and care for Lord Gavin if you can save him. He may not have the will to live, but you must infuse it in him, for he has traveled a long and hard road.” With that, he lost the remains of his hoarse voice and became encompassed in a fit of coughing.
Madelyne touched his arm in response. “I shall do what I can for Lord Mal Verne. And do you come to me when this is over and I will give you aught for your cough.” Then, she turned away and began the trek up to the keep.
* * *
It was she, his Madonna, the first thing he saw when he opened his eyes. Gavin’s lids were painfully heavy, scratching over eyes that were gritted like sand, but there was nothing wrong with his vision.
Her pale oval of a face reflected concern and determination. Its beauty was marred by a thick streak of soot over one high cheekbone, running along the length of her face to the chin, and tiny flecks of black over her forehead and nose. Wisps of night-colored hair framed her high forehead and caressed the curve of her jaw.
A sudden fit of coughing caught him by surprise and she immediately rested a cool, soothing hand on his chest as if to help subdue it.
She turned to the table, then back. “Drink this,” she offered, slipping her fingers around the back of his neck and bringing a cup to his lips.
He drank thirstily, feeling the cool soothing taste of mint slide down his throat. When he drank, he smelled its camphoric aroma and felt his lungs begin to expand more easily. As the heaviness of his breathing subsided, he became aware of a throbbing pain on his leg, and a more subtle ache to his head. As if reading his mind, Lady Madelyne spoke.
“I have wrapped your leg with a poultice to ease the burn there. You have other cuts and scrapes, but I do not believe they are much more than nicks to you.” She smiled. “It appears that the ceiling landed on your head when it collapsed, and though it most likely aches, it does not seem severe.”
He crooked his lips slightly. “It seems that no matter what it is that befalls me, you appear upon my awakening to care for me.”
Her smile faded and she stepped back. “’Twas a foolish thing you did, Lord Mal Verne. Though you accuse me of attempting to take mine own life, you should make a meal of your own words! ’Twas naught but foolishness, rushing into a burning building as you did!”
“Foolishness.” Whatever tenderness he may have felt for the Madonna-like woman before him disappeared at her reprimanding tone. “It may be no great loss to you should a villein perish in such a way, but each life given by God is sacred—”
“Indeed it is,” she interrupted calmly, her level voice somehow overriding his. “Including your own, my lord. If you had been killed for your rashness, would not the lives of more have suffered with the loss of their liege, their protector? ’Twould have been more prudent to have assistance in your quest, do you not think so?”
So great was Gavin’s surprise at the concern clouding her eyes that he did not take umbrage with her pointed words. “I am used to taking such risks,” he replied in his rough, scratchy voice. “’Tis my duty.”
Madelyne nodded, leaning toward him with a cloth that she used to dab at his pounding head. “Aye, my lord, ’tis your duty. And is it your duty to wish for death as you take those risks?”
Gavin stared at her, suddenly caught in the moon-like pools of her gray eyes. She was so close that her warmth and serenity covered him like a thick blanket. The cloth on his face was cool and soothing, and he was surrounded by the scents of mint and smoke and, beneath it all, woman. “I did not wish for death this time,” he admitted, hardly aware of what he was saying, so strong was the sudden urge to pull her to him.
Madelyne stilled, as if she sensed his churning emotions. “Death would not become you, my lord,” she said at last, brushing gentle fingers down the side of his face. “And methinks you would leave much sorrow behind you in this world.”
Nine
Madelyne pulled another offending weed from a patch of lavender, tossing it onto the stone pathway behind her. The day was beautiful, with a full, bright sun casting warmth over all the earth, and the scents of herbs and flowers carried on a gentle breeze. The garden at Mal Verne had long been neglected, and she had taken to spending some of her day among the calendula, peppermint, thyme and ladies mantle.
She’d been at Mal Verne for nearly a fortnight, and had fallen into a bit of a routine. After the fire, which had destroyed one portion of the village, the news of her ability to treat injuries became known, and Madelyne found herself in some demand for such tasks. Thus, she allotted the morning hours immediately following Mass to receiving the villagers and seeing to their hurts. Through Jube, Lord Gavin—as she’d come to think of him—had given permission for her to use a small storeroom built off the kitchen for her infirmary. When asked why the villeins did not seek the services of the town leech, Jube replied that news of her years at the abbey, and proximity to God, lent her abilities more credence in the eyes of the townsfolk.
After her time spent with the villagers, Madelyne was often approached by Mal Verne’s steward, Jonnat, with issues that would normally have been handled by the Lady of Mal Verne.
The first time Jonnat came to her with problems caused by infighting among the seamstresses, Madelyne did not know how to respond. “How does the lady of the household handle such problems?” she asked in confusion.
Jonnat looked at her, confusion mirrored on his own face, and snapped his jaw shut. She saw him dart a glance around, then return his attention to her. “The lady—we do not speak of her within the lord’s hearing…or otherwise.”
Madelyne barely refrained from rolling her eyes in frustration. Whatever the absent Lady Mal Verne’s role in her husband’s life, it seemed much too extreme that her name not even be mentioned within the household. However, she forebore to respond. Instead, she took it upon herself to visit the solar where the seamstresses worked. With a few pointed questions and some veiled suggestions that the lord would not be pleased to be bothered with such trifles, Madelyne was able to smooth out the problems and get the women back to work.
Jonnat was so grateful—for, apparently, he’d been unable to handle the catty, spiteful women—that he made it a practice to approach her with other such feminine related problems. Madelyne did not begrudge assisting the man, who was a bit elderly and prone to confusion when faced with feminine wiles. And having lived among only women for so long, Madelyn
e was well-versed in such conflicts—for even in the abbey, there was occasional jealousy and gossip.
Thus, it was not until after the midday meal that she found the time to escape to the chapel for some moments of reflection, and then to God’s other home, the outdoors, to bury her hands in the soil and encourage the struggling plants to grow.
Since the fire, she’d seen little of Mal Verne himself. Though he’d been burned heartily by a fallen ceiling beam, he’d insisted on rising from his bed the following day—overriding her protests—and going down to the village to supervise the rebuilding of the burned out homes. She’d heard from Tricky, who had the information from Clem, that Lord Gavin had declared that no home be built closer than twenty paces to the next.
A sudden high-pitched giggle pierced her ears. Madelyne pulled back onto her haunches and looked toward the high growth of boxwood, which was shuddering much too violently to be simply the breeze passing through. Just as she turned, the bushes next to the thick boxwood hedge parted, and Tricky stumbled through. She had her skirt clutched in her hands and she was looking behind her, another giggle tumbling from her mouth, as she dashed toward the pathway.
Upon seeing Madelyne, she paused, raising a finger to her plump, berry-like lips, and, eyes twinkling, ducked behind a rosemary bush.
Heavy crashing announced the arrival of someone larger and stronger than Tricky, and Madelyne watched in faint amusement as Jube burst through the hedge several paces from where her maid had appeared. He skidded to a halt in his tracks when he caught sight of Madelyne and froze, looking acutely uncomfortable.
“Hail there, Jube,” Madelyne said, pulling a small growth of oregano from the midst of the lavendar patch.
The tall blond man stood, tugging at his tunic and brushing dirt and leaves from the sleeves of his sherte , then shifted his weight from boot heel to boot heel. He looked around covertly, but did not move. “Good day, my lady,” he said at last, glancing toward the rosemary bush.
“I wondered where you’d gotten off to,” Madelyne commented idly.
“Ah, yes, my lady. As I knew you would be occupied for some time here in the garden, I went to see to…mmm…some other business.” He rubbed his prominent nose, then pinched the spot where it bent to one side. “Er…has anyone happened along here recently?”
She bit her lip to hide a smile. He tried so hard to sound casual, but his gaze continued to dart around like a butterfly. “Nay, not that I have noticed.” She avoided looking toward the rosemary bush, which vibrated briefly. “I have been very busy, though, and may not have seen someone if they passed by quietly.”
“Mmmm.” Jube clearly did not know how to react, and ’twas obvious that he was torn between his duty to watch over her, and his desire to learn where Tricky had escaped.
Madelyne took pity and dismissed him with a wave of her hand. “Go you and finish your business—I shall be here yet until the sun reaches the top of that apple tree.”
He smiled at her, and, passing a hand over his thin hair, gave a quick bow. “Thank you, my lady. I will return then.” He started to go, then turned back. “If anyone should pass this way, you may…mmm…never you mind.” And, with a faint flush staining his pale face, he bounded off down the path with the grace of a plow-horse.
No sooner had he gone than the rosemary bush shuddered in earnest and Tricky blundered out of hiding. Her face was flushed with enthusiasm and her honey-colored hair straggled in messy wisps, springing from the confines of its braid. “Many thanks, my lady!” she said.
Madelyne’s amusement grew. “An’ what kind of chase do you lead him on?”
Tricky sank down on the ground next to her, reaching for a tuft of grass that grew amidst the thyme. “He thought to kiss me, and I thought to foil his plans!” She tossed the grass to one side, heedless of the fact that it missed Madelyne’s head only by a slight margin.
“If he has overstepped his bounds, you need only tell me,” Madelyne told her, looking at her shrewdly…while at the same time, wondering what it would be like to have a man think to kiss her. Lord Gavin’s face popped into her mind, and she bit her lip. Had he mayhap thought to kiss her on the wall that first eve at Mal Verne? And if he wished to, why had he not done so?
Madelyne suppressed the sudden shiver of heat that slid up her spine, then resolutely dismissed the thought. A man such as Gavin Mal Verne would want naught to do with a mousy nun such as she…and, dear Lord, she’d forgotten—he was married! She pursed her lips, renewing her silent vow to return to life at the abbey as soon as possible. She’d been with out its walls for less than a fortnight, and already she was tempted to stray from God’s path!
“’Tis naught for you to be concerned with,” Tricky was saying earnestly. “Jube has behaved only kindly toward me, and I have no quarrel with his attentions.” She beamed, plucking a daisy, and began to pull its silky white petals from their yellow center mooring. “He loves me, he loves me not …”
Just then, a dark shadow fell over the two women. Tricky looked up, squeaked in surprise, and floundered to her feet. “My lord!”
Madelyne raised her face, shielding her eyes from the sun that blared behind him, but did not move from her position. “Good day, Lord Gavin.”
“My lady.” He cast a brief glance at Tricky, who had begun to melt away into the nearby shrubbery. “Patricka.” He looked around, then down at Madelyne, who had shifted so that the sun did not blind her. “I do not see Jube, my lady. Is he not nearby?”
Madelyne saw Tricky’s sudden intake of breath and replied mildly, “He was here only a moment ago, my lord. I believe he stepped away to…tend to some personal matter.”
“Ah. Chasing some unsuspecting maiden most likely.”
Madelyne stared up at him, aware that her surprise was openly on her features. Had he actually made a jest? She looked closely at his face, but saw no indication of good humor in his eyes. He plucked a stem of peppermint and began to chew on the leaves.
Tricky stepped backward once more, trampling on the boxwood. “With your leave, my lord, my lady,” she babbled, “I shall find Sir Jube and inform him that his presence is requested.” Without waiting for a response, she turned and crashed into the thick brush and disappeared.
Lord Gavin peered after her for a moment. “What ails your maid, Lady Madelyne?”
She shrugged slightly and returned to her task of pulling up the oregano that had begun to sprout throughout the garden. Her hand trembled, and she felt her heart leap into her throat when he crouched down beside her. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see his scuffed brown boots and his strong tanned hand resting on the dirt. He was too near, and she could not think clearly.
“You’ve spent much time setting right the gardens of Mal Verne, as well as guiding old Jonnat in his tasks. The villagers speak highly of you and your healing skills, and I wish to thank you for all you have done.”
Madelyne kept her gaze trained on the plants in front of her, afraid that if she looked over and was caught in his stare, he would see what in her eyes she did not wish for him to know. “I am not used to being idle,” she replied. There was a silence and she nearly gave in to the urge to look at him, but instead kept her attention trained on a ladybird that scuttled along the stem of a daisy.
“I wish also to thank you for tending to me, and to my hurts. How fares the woman we saved from the fire?”
“Lettie is doing well. Barden’s mother, Coria, has taken her into her home and cares for her.”
“And how fares she with the loss of her son?”
Madelyne brushed some dirt from her skirt. “She has become accustomed to the loss, my lord, and though she grieves for him, she has found strength in caring for Lettie and the child she carries.” Now she had the courage to look up, and she was surprised to see him staring into the distance, his face carved in emotionless stone.
“I had hoped to save them both,” he admitted, still gazing, unseeing, toward the horizon. Then, as if comprehending the words sh
e’d spoken, he whipped his gaze to hers. “Lettie carries a child?”
Madelyne nodded once, suddenly shy under his heavy gaze. “Aye. She had only suspected before the fire, but now she has told Coria, and together the women have learned to deal with their grief by focusing on the coming baby.”
“I shall send her a cow and some hens,” he murmured to himself.
Madelyne returned to her task, and felt rather than saw him as he sank further to the ground, sitting next to her so that the toe of his boot nearly brushed her skirt. What he could hope to accomplish by his presence, she did not know, so, emboldened, she turned to ask. “My lord, is there aught that I can do for you?”
As she spoke, he reached out and caught a flyaway strand of her hair, tucking it behind her ear. Madelyne froze, her heart thumping in her throat, as his fingers brushed her ear and the side of her face. “Nay.” The single word was carried softly on the breeze and hung there for a moment until he spoke again. “I wished only to seek the serenity of the garden, and the calmness of your presence after a day of much activity.”
Shaken, Madelyne forced herself to return to her weeding. What could he mean? Still acutely aware of his presence, she felt him reach for and pluck another stem of mint, and smelled the crispness of its scent as he chewed on it.
“You prefer to be out of doors,” Lord Gavin commented in a dusky, rumbling voice.
“Aye. ’Tis the best place to enjoy the world God has given us. To smell the clean air, to enjoy His creatures and the green things He has created… ” Madelyne glanced at him, then quickly back to the clump of oregano that grew in the midst of the mint. “Even when it grows where we do not wish it to,” she continued, gesturing to the oregano as she pulled it from the earth. “One must stop and give thanks.”
