Sanctuary of Roses mhg-2

by Колин Глисон

  He was pulled from his internal ruminations as Clem rode up next to them. Gavin was mildly surprised to note that he was not sharing a saddle with the dimple-cheeked maid Madelyne had insisted upon bringing and he raised an eyebrow. “Where is your charge, man?”

  Clem’s face ruddied slightly and he gave a curt gesture. “She insisted that to save my arm from further injury, she should allow it to rest as it healed. She rides with Jube.”

  Gavin glanced back to see the pair in question, then returned his attention to Clem. “Does your arm pain you, and did you welcome the discharge of that custody?”

  The other man straightened in the saddle, flickering a glance toward Madelyne. “My lord, you know that I would not shirk my duty. The mistress stated that she wished to spare me the pain of holding her in the saddle. I could not argue with her logic.”

  “She is no light of feather,” Gavin agreed.

  “’Twas no strain for me to hold her, my lord.” Clem replied with indignation, “But if she prefers the company of Jube, then who am I to say her nay?”

  Gavin shot a surprised look at his man, noticing that his wide, kind face was set in a shuttered expression. He seemed most irked that the chubby maid rode with Jube, but mayhaps it was only that he felt his mastery had been challenged by her fear of injuring him. Gavin frowned. Clem was not normally one to care what a woman would think of him—Jube was more likely to flirt and woo and court a maiden than Clem. And Gavin himself rarely even smiled at a woman, yet he’d smiled at Madelyne…sought her company…kissed her in the deep woods…

  Sighing, Gavin shifted again in the saddle. It seemed his thoughts always came back to the woman who rode with him. Praise God they would reach Whitehall this night, where he could discharge himself of Lady Madelyne and return his attentions to that which truly mattered.

  * * *

  The Court of Henry the Plantagenet was more hectic and crowded than Madelyne could have imagined. She forgot to sit forward in the saddle, away from Lord Gavin, in her amazement at the activity just within the bailey at Whitehall. And she did naught but gape like a peasant.

  There were squires and pages dashing to and fro, dressed in the livery of the king, the queen, and other nobility. At the least, ten marshals rushed to greet Mal Verne’s party as the horses picked their way through the crowded bailey to the stables. Men-at-arms strode through the yard in loud, boisterous groups, swords and mail clanging to the rhythm of their steps. Clusters of merchants hawked baskets of fruit, vegetables, and small cloth items, and Madelyne even saw peasant boys and girls chasing chickens, sheep, and goats about.

  Gavin dismounted near the stables, and before reaching to assist her down, he turned and barked orders to three nearby pages. “Make it known to his majesty that the Lord of Mal Verne has arrived,” he commanded one young boy. To another, he said, “See that lodging is prepared for Lady Madelyne de Belgrume near the ladies’ chambers—on the order of the Lord of Mal Verne.” And to the third, he added, “Send word to Lady Judith Kentworth that Lord Mal Verne has arrived. I will see her anon.”

  He turned back to Madelyne and, fitting his hands around her waist, lifted her from the saddle to the ground in one fluid movement as she wondered who Judith of Kentworth was. Before she even steadied herself, he had turned to Clem, giving curt orders about the care of the horses, the deliverance of the baggage that followed, and lodging for the men.

  Madelyne stood to one side, watching him—his face intent and hawkish, his thick dark hair shifting with the wind, his stance tall and commanding. This was the Gavin she had first experienced—the harsh, shuttered man with nary a hint of humor or softness in his persona. She’d thought mayhaps that had been only a shell that had begun to crack in those days at Mal Verne, but now, it seemed that she was wrong. That gentle moment in the garden when he brushed her hair behind her ear, and confessed that he’d sought her out to enjoy her presence…and the bold, sensual kiss they’d shared after her rescue: those moments did not belong to this man, here and now. Mayhaps they’d been only of her imagining.

  “Lady Madelyne.” His deep voice rumbled, tinged with annoyance, catching her attention over the cacophony of other arrivals and making a flush rise in her face.

  She looked at him without flinching for the first time since he’d kissed her in the wood, and she struggled to appear unmoved. “Aye, my lord?”

  He offered her his arm without another word, and reluctantly, she slipped her fingers over the sleeve of his mail hauberk. They’d taken several steps toward the castle entrance before he deigned to speak to her again. “’Tis unlikely the king will grant you an audience before the morrow, so I will send for you when he does. You may be called to serve her majesty in the mean while, and if that should happen and I cannot attend you, seek out Lady Judith of Kentworth. She is very kind and she will help you in my stead.”

  All at once, panic swamped her. Madelyne swallowed, barely noticing that they had entered the castle called Whitehall and that they were making their way down a stone hall filled with people. Some called acknowledgements to Gavin, and others eyed them with blatant curiosity. A small group of ladies passed by, dressed in bright, sumptuous gowns, and looked in askance at her as they offered cooing greetings to her companion. Madelyne took small comfort in the fact that his response to them was as cool and unemotional as ’twas toward her, for her mind was on the matter at hand.

  He was going to leave her here—at court—alone.

  The stab of trepidation returned and she struggled to contain her panic. He wouldn’t leave her if it wasn’t safe, she told herself as he manipulated them silently down the hallway. She might be new and naive to the ways at court, but she would learn them. Remaining here, under the care of the king and queen, was far preferable to being turned over to her father. A shiver raced through her, and although Gavin glanced down, he said nothing.

  As they walked along the hallway, Madelyne renewed her private vow to do what she must to remain under the king’s care…and to return to the abbey for her final vows should the king release her.

  “The ladies’ chambers are there,” Gavin spoke, coming to a halt at the commencement of a side hall. He paused, stepping away from Madelyne and allowing her fingers to slip from his arm. He appeared to be looking for someone, and she backed toward the wall, tucking her fingers into the sleeves of her overtunic to hide their trembling.

  A faint musty smell from the damp masonry reached her nose, and she wrinkled it slightly, hoping that her lodgings would not be so chill. Gavin gave her a brief look, followed by a short gesture indicating that she should stay there, then started down an adjoining hall, craning his head this way and that.

  Feeling bereft and out-of-place, Madelyne tried to make herself as unobtrusive as possible, leaning back into a small corner. She watched in silence as people continued to pass by, giving her nary a glance as they chattered, argued, or laughed.

  A familiar squeal of laughter reached her ears just as Gavin reappeared at her side, and they turned as one to look down the hall from where they’d come. Madelyne felt her companion spew out a long breath, but he said nothing as they were accosted by a breathless, bright-eyed Tricky, who was flanked by Jube, Clem, and Peg—as well as several serfs toting trunks and cloth bags.

  Tricky ignored Gavin and went directly to Madelyne, taking her hands with soft, pudgy ones, and giving a sketch of a curtsey. When she rose to her full, diminutive height, her face was shiny and apple-cheeked. “There you be, my lady! I made certain to wait for our trunks that they be delivered to the right chamber.” Glancing at Gavin, who hadn’t done much to hide his faint annoyance, she spoke, “’Tis said my lord has enough influence in his majesty’s court to procure a private chamber for you, my lady.”

  Madelyne looked at him in dismay. It had not occurred to her that she might have to share a chamber with some of the other ladies of the court, and she waited, holding her breath, for his response.

  “Do you not look so unsettled,” he responde
d with a gentler tone than she’d anticipated. “’Tis the reason we wait here—I expect the page to return with word of your chamber—a private one for you, my lady, as your maid seems to think you warrant such.”

  “Aye, and costly ’twill be too, my lady. But ’tis the least can be done for you that you do not have to share a chamber with the other ladies.” Tricky cast a brief yet pointed look at Gavin.

  Madelyne’s dismay turned to confusion. “Cost? But…what cost would there be—his majesty has requested—nay, ordered—my presence here. Surely it is not expected… ” Her voiced trailed off as she saw the impatient look on Gavin’s face.

  “Lodging is available at no cost if you wish to sleep in the women’s quarters, on a pallet on the floor, with the other scores of women and children who follow the court—”

  Tricky interrupted boldly—not unlike a terrier fiercely defending her mistress against a lion in his den. “My lady cannot stay in such a public place! Lady Madelyne, ’tis the very least can be done for you to arrange for a private chamber since his majesty has required your presence here.”

  “But at what cost?” she asked, acutely aware that she had no funds with which to pay for her keep. Her chest tightened as the reality closed over her: she was completely at the mercy of the ways of the court, and with no money, she was even more vulnerable. “I haven’t—”

  Gavin cut her off with a curt sweep of his hand. “Do you not concern yourself with such matters. You shall be lodged here, and clothed and fed in the manner befitting the Lady of Belgrume. The expenses will be managed by Clem—send you to him any costs you incur.”

  Madelyne’s voice left her as she stared at him in a combination of horror and outrage. “Lord Mal Verne, I cannot accept that you should bear the expense of my stay at court.” She twisted her hands, still tucked in the sleeves of her overtunic, but kept her voice quietly even.

  He glanced at her as though she were a fly buzzing about his ear, his brows knitting together in a dark line. “You were brought to court under my care, and will remain thus until the king relieves me of such duty—thus your expenses will be borne by Mal Verne.” When she was about to speak again, he gave her a quelling look, his face hard-planed and dark with annoyance. “Do you not fear—Mal Verne can easily bear any expense you might incur. I’ll hear no more on the matter.”

  He turned away to speak with Clem, leaving Madelyne to glare at him in angry futility. The man had the unlikable penchant for snapping at one when he wished to hear no more of a conversation. She withdrew her hands from her sleeves and folded her arms across her middle, turning from him in frustration. She did not intend to be a burden to him—or to anyone else. She would return to the abbey as soon as she gained permission from the king. What reason could the king want her—a nun—to stay in his court?

  An unexpected shard of pain caused her to curl her mouth as Gavin’s words penetrated her thoughts. A duty she was to Gavin of Mal Verne—and naught more than that. When the king relieved him of his care of her, she would not see him again.

  Whether that be a blessing or a curse, she did not know.

  Twelve

  “Nay, ’tis not right,” Madelyne protested as Peg held a length of garnet-colored cloth alongside her face to check the color with her complexion.

  The maid ignored her as she and Tricky clucked about, discussing colors and styles with the seamstress who had appeared at the door of their chamber the morning after their arrival.

  “’Tis like the night sky!” Tricky breathed, sighing over a vibrant blue cloth shot with silver threads.

  “Aye, mistress, and silver stars and moons embroidered on the cuffs,” nodded the seamstress. Madelyne realized in annoyance that the woman had learned to disregard her protests almost immediately, turning her attention to the short, plump women who fluttered about their lady. The seamstress’s eyes gleamed with satisfaction as yet another bolt of cloth was added to the growing pile of silks and linens and wools.

  “’Tis not right,” Madelyne spoke again, this time with more vehemence. “It’s too much—the cost will be too great, and I do not need all of these gowns!”

  This time, her objection was not ignored. Tricky turned to her with flashing eyes, surprising Madelyne with the indignation in her expression. “My lady, when I agreed to come with you, I vowed to care for you to the best of my abilities—to protect you and to serve you. I cannot allow you to dress in rags, or in clothing that belonged to another woman in another time. You must be dressed as befits your station, and you must adorn yourself with jewels and gold—else you will be eaten alive by the wild cats here!”

  Madelyne blinked. How had Tricky become so seasoned with the ways at court, and from where had this stubborn streak come? “I am but a simple nun,” she replied, “and I do not believe that you agreed to accompany me…I believe that you gave me little choice in that matter.” A wry smile suddenly caught at her face—mayhaps that stubborn streak had always been there, but hidden by a veil and prayerful hands.

  “You are no nun yet,” Tricky reminded her boldly. “And until such time as you make your last vows and shave your head, you must bear the mantle of your position. Even you, my lady, must wear the pretension of the Lady of Tricourten if you are to have a chance here.”

  The seamstress bobbed her head vigorously. “Aye, my lady, you must listen to your maid—she has the right of it. And the Lord of Mal Verne has instructed me to clothe you in such a manner. I cannot disregard his wishes.” The expression on her face revealed that she was not so much afraid of his lord as she was loathe to lose the business.

  Madelyne frowned and didn’t reply, trying to forget her sudden aversion at the reminder that she would shave her head. She could demand that the women go, and leave her to her simple, borrowed clothing…but mayhaps that would be no more than slicing off her nose to spite her face. She would need every bit of influence in her favor if she were to gain permission from the king to leave his court, and to survive her stay whilst she was there.

  She sighed, and the others, seizing the opportunity of her tacit approval, returned to their animated discussion of her clothing. The seamstress left, and by that time, Madelyne was at peace—albeit temporarily—with the arrangement. It would be a temporary allowance, and when she returned to Lock Rose Abbey, she could don the familiar gowns of black and blue linen. Absently, she allowed her fingers to trail over the smoothness of a pearlescent silk, reveling in its sleekness. ’Twould be no hardship to slip into the softness of a tunic made from this cloth, she mused guiltily. Snatching her hand away, she turned to the small fireplace and forced herself to say two paternosters and one prayer to the Blessed Virgin in penance for her frivolous thoughts.

  Madelyne had barely finished when a knock sounded on the door. She started for it, but Tricky gestured her back and opened it just enough to peer out. She withdrew back into the chamber and announced in a voice heavy with formality, “My lady has her first visitor. Lady Judith of Kentworth requests an audience with my lady.”

  Madelyne rose to her feet, smoothing her gown. “Tricky, please let her in.” She stepped toward the door to greet the woman who breezed in, followed by a young page and two maidservants.

  “Lady Madelyne.” As she swept in, the other woman brightened the room with her smile and fiery, golden-red hair. She paused from taking Madelyne’s hands into her own. “Do you not remember me?” Her laugh tinkled into the room as she moved forward, nearly stepping upon a stack of discarded bolts of cloth. “Our summer of fostering in Kent?”

  The memory struck Madelyne with the force of a gale wind and she could not help the smile that burst over her face. “Judith? ’Tis you?” Before she could speak further, she was enveloped by her childhood friend in an exuberant embrace and she felt tension ease from her body.

  Judith stepped away, holding her by the fingertips, and appraised her bluntly. “Aye, Maddie, how you’ve grown into a beautiful woman! But we must do away with your clothing!”

  Before Made
lyne could protest that she had much too much with fussing over her dress, Judith spurred into action and began to issue firm, simple commands. “Fetch you my ribbons and girdles trunk, Mellie,” she said to a maidservant who’d accompanied her. “Onda, I will need to see Mistress Blaine—send to her to see us before the midday meal.” Thus, each of the companions were sent away—including Tricky and Peg, who wished to accompany Onda on her mission—and the two women were left alone.

  “At last,” Judith said, casting her a bright smile.

  “Please, sit,” Madelyne found her voice and was determined to regain control over her future. She would gladly admit her deficiency in fashion and dress, and capitulate to those who knew better. But in other matters, she would not be overruled. Before she had a chance to speak and establish this, Judith waved a hand at her as she plopped onto the bed.

  “I trow, ’tis most difficult to think up excuses to send them away that they do not wonder why I should be so urgent in the matter. ’Tis just that I wished for a moment alone with you—as you are guarded by that little dragon—to speak on these long years.” Her face, beautiful in its own right, softened from the smile into one of quiet sadness. “Dear Maddie, you cannot know how ill I felt when I learned you’d been drowned these ten years past. And you cannot know the hope I felt when Gavin shared that he’d found you yet alive.”

  At the mention of Gavin, Madelyne felt an odd wrench in her stomach and she stood abruptly. This beautiful woman, with the red-gold beacon of a head and sparkling green eyes, was the one he’d told her to seek if she needed assistance. She spoke of him with familiarity and warmth, and though she shouldn’t care, Madelyne couldn’t keep back the unhappy thought of what Judith of Kentworth meant to Gavin of Mal Verne.