Sanctuary of Roses mhg-2

by Колин Глисон

  “Paramours! Hah!” Tricky nearly caught the comb in a tangle again, but caught herself in time. “Mayhaps one could name Jube such, but I do not care for that malcontent Clem at all . I wish only to torture the man, for he does naught but stand about and glower at me. I do believe he could be taking instruction from Lord Mal Verne.”

  Madelyne felt her eyebrows rise at such a blatant criticism, but she could not fault Tricky for accuracy in her observations. Indeed, she had felt the weight of Gavin’s surly stare that evening. Firming her lips, she reminded herself that ’twas she who had cause to be furious with him, rather than the other way around. Despite the fact that her heart had jumped into her throat when she’d turned to see him, and regardless of the acuteness of the memory of his lips tasting hers, Madelyne knew she couldn’t trust those flighty emotions. She could not trust him .

  For some reason, that realization pained her more than leaving the abbey. Emptiness and unease settled around her, and the back of her throat hurt when she swallowed. Before the surprise tears could materialize, she stood and Tricky let the comb slip from her hair. Fighting sadness, Maddie walked toward the tiny fireplace, her eyes fixed on the orange flames. Peg had set the fire and it burned calmly in its little enclosure, whilst Peg herself snored on a pallet in the corner.

  “Methinks my lady has attracted her own paramour,” Tricky said slyly, shoving her comb into a small linen pouch. She pulled on the strings to tighten the opening of the bag and glanced at Madelyne.

  “What do you mean?” Maddie asked, startled. A warmth that had naught to do with the fire suffused her face. She folded her hands in front of her and sat on the stool near the fireplace, looking over at her maid.

  “Lady Judith had the right of it when she said you would attract attention,” Tricky responded, busying herself by folding one of the tunics Judith had loaned Madelyne. “I saw many people staring at you, my lady—”

  Madelyne relaxed. “’Twas no more than curiosity, Tricky.”

  “Mayhaps from some, aye. But the tall man who sat next to you had more than curiosity in his face.” She spoke matter-of-factly, turning to open a trunk where the other tunics were stored.

  Tricky could have no idea that her casual words sent Madelyne’s heart sliding into a heavy ball in her stomach. “Lord Reginald? Why, he… ” She allowed her voice to trail off. He had been very attentive once Lady Judith had consented him to sup with them, his soft lips pressing lightly to the back of her hand upon introduction. His blue eyes glowed with warmth and humor, and his mouth quirked in a ready smile above the deeply cleft, square chin. “He merely wished to find a seat near an acquaintance of his,” she continued firmly, recounting the excuse he’d given them upon approach.

  “Mmm.” Tricky continued her business of arranging the bolts of cloth and other materials left by the seamstress. “From the back of the hall, where Peg and I sat, he appeared to spend more of his time conversing with you, my lady, than any other in the vicinity.”

  Madelyne took a deep breath to calm the churning in her stomach. “I did nothing to encourage Lord Reginald,” she said, defending herself without wondering why she should do so—most especially why she should do so to her own maid. But Tricky had been her friend before taking on the subservient role, and, in truth, aside from Judith, Madelyne had no one else to confide in.

  Then, with a sinking heart, she recalled her forward actions of resting her fingers lightly on the edge of his sleeve as she leaned toward him to comment on a nearby juggler, and the overbright smile she rewarded him with upon his own jests. And, she remembered the sharpening of her breath when Lord Reginald touched her hand, or offered her a tasty bite of venison…and the increase in her pulse when he smiled at her so.

  Mayhaps Tricky had the right of it. Madelyne bit her lower lip and reached for the rose-bead string of prayer beads that hung from her girdle. She would pray on her knees this eve in penance for her coy actions, and she would beg The Lord and The Mother that they would give her strength to keep from straying from her path. “Lead me not into temptation,” Madelyne murmured, fingering the beads.

  “Pardon, my lady?” Tricky’s head popped up from where she had been stuffing clothing into another trunk.

  “Nay, ’twas naught,” Madelyne replied, looking down at her beads. This was the first time she’d meant to use them since leaving the abbey, though they had always hung at her side. She had prayed oft to The Father and the saints, and she attended Mass once a day or more…but she had avoided using her beads since Lord Gavin had taken her from Lock Rose Abbey.

  She wondered suddenly whether he still had those beads she had given him on his first visit to the abbey…or whether they had been destroyed or lost. It had surprised and moved her that he still carried them when he came back to the abbey.

  Her fingers worried the strand of scented beads, feeling the roundness of them and the tiny scores made by the little paddle she’d used to form them. Gavin’s serious face loomed in her memory—the harshness and unyielding planes of his countenance melding into the intense, blazing expression that had been there in the glen, when he’d kissed her. His mouth had been so persuasive, so demanding…her body turned to liquid again, now, at the mere thought of it. She still remembered the thickness of his damp hair, smooth and heavy under her fingers, and how tall and hard he’d been…how safe she’d felt.

  Madelyne shook her head violently as if to chase the remembrance away. How could she be thinking of such a thing? She was meant to be a nun—she had vowed her life to God—and she should be on her knees begging forgiveness for her transgressions of this evening, not mooning over the memory of another sin.

  Sin.

  Dear God, it did not feel like a sin.

  Fourteen

  “Your majesty…Lady Madelyne de Belgrume.”

  Gavin watched as Madelyne glided forward and sank into a deep, graceful curtsey. He stood to the side in the king’s private court room, near the clerk, and leaned against the table at which the clerk scratched royal edicts onto parchment paper. He had arrived at Madelyne’s chamber a short time ago to escort her to Henry’s presence. She’d spoken little to him, and he’d returned the favor in kind.

  Madelyne rose upon the king’s invitation, and pressed a kiss to his ringed forefinger before stepping slightly back. Her graceful neck was bare again—long and slim and white, with tendrils of stark blackness wisping about her nape—and she wore a fine gown of goldenrod covered by a pale yellow overtunic. The lack of jewelry was the only indication of her status as a nun and not the well-landed heiress she could aspire to be.

  “Your majesty, I am grateful for the invitation to your presence,” Madelyne said in a clear voice.

  Henry stood next to his massive oaken throne, his golden-red hair glinting in the sunlight that streamed through three wide slits in the wall. “We are as pleased to offer the invitation as you purport to be grateful.” He stepped away from the chair and across the dais to place his hands on the back of the empty throne that belonged to Eleanor. “’Tis our understanding that you have sought sanctuary in an abbey? For ten years?”

  Madelyne nodded. “Aye, your majesty, my mother and I found refuge there after leaving Tricourten.” She clasped her hands in front of her.

  Gavin frowned. “Your mother is dead, as you told me, Lady Madelyne.” He stepped away from the table on which he’d been leaning and took several steps closer to Madelyne, so that he could see her face.

  Henry flashed a look at him, then transferred his stern stare to Madelyne. “Is this true? Your mother no longer lives?”

  “Aye, ’tis true. Mayhap I was not clear in my answer, your highness. My mother and I made our way to Lock Rose Abbey, and she perished some three years after we arrived there.”

  “Why did you not return to your father at that time?” Henry paced across the dais, in front of the two thrones, his steady gaze focused on Madelyne.

  Gavin saw her draw in her breath, oh so slightly, and then slowly release it be
fore she replied. “Your majesty, my mother and I left Tricourten because she bore the ill will of my father, and the weight of his hand. I dared not return, for fear that he would take out his anger on me…and, in sooth, I had not the means to return, nor did I know where Tricourten was. I was only ten summers, your highness, when my mother and I left.”

  Henry pursed his lips, pinching the lower one with his right thumb and forefinger. “’Tis not uncommon for a man to beat his wife to guarantee her obedience…still, we do find it rather ambitious that your mother was able to plan such a successful escape. By all rights, Lady Madelyne, you should be returned to your father’s care.”

  Gavin saw her face turn to white, and her mouth pinched at the corners. He felt something akin to sympathy for her: she obviously had a great fear of Fantin de Belgrume.

  “Your majesty, I pray that you would reconsider such a thing.” Madelyne’s voice, though calm, was a bit breathless with anxiety. “I have spent these last ten years in an abbey, cared for by the good sisters, and I have chosen to embrace the life of a religious woman. Indeed, I should never have left had you not requested my presence.”

  The king raised one eyebrow, glancing at Gavin archly. Returning his attention to Madelyne, the king asked, “You are a nun? You have taken your final vows?”

  The long white column of her throat constricted. “Nay, your majesty, I have not shaved my head and taken my last vows, though ’tis my intent—”

  “You have not yet taken your vows? Verily, you are not a nun.” Henry waved her protest aside with a large, beringed hand.

  “Your highness,” Madelyne began, “’Tis my intent—”

  “Your intent has laid unmet for ten years, my lady.” His gaze was as shrewd as his words were pointed, and Gavin felt a bit sorry for her. “You have had ample opportunity to make those vows, and as you have not seen fit to do so, then we shall make the choice for you.”

  Her eyes widened and her face became even paler. “You would return me to the custody of my father?” Her hands were clenched in front of her, the knuckles graying as her fingers curled together.

  “Nay.” Henry stepped down from the dais and across the room to a small table where he poured himself a goblet of wine. “Gavin, serve yourself and Lady Madelyne,” he commanded, stalking back onto the dais.

  “Nay, Lady Madelyne, we shall not return you to the care of your father. In sooth, ’tis our plan to keep your wardship under our care until a proper protector—a husband—can be found for you. In the mean while, ’twill keep your father from razing the lands of our other barons and causing war among them whilst you are our guest at court.”

  “But, your majesty,” Madelyne started desperately, ignoring the goblet of wine Gavin offered her, “please have pity—I have made a vow to God that I shall dedicate my life to Him!”

  Gavin saw her eyes glisten with unshed tears and trepidation tauten her face, and he nearly reached out to touch her. How terrible it must be to have one’s fate seized, he thought, suddenly realizing how accurate she’d been when she told him of the unusual freedoms granted to women in cloistered abbeys.

  The knowledge that he’d been party to—nay, that he was responsible for—destroying that freedom she’d obtained crested over him like a dash of cold water.

  Henry had turned to Madelyne and now looked at her with steely blue eyes. “My lady,” he responded in his firm, monarchical voice, “we do not attempt to naysay God, but, as we have made clear, your dedication to Him has not been formalized, and thus we take that as a sign, from God Himself, if you wish, that ’tis not His desire that you do so. We shall hear no more upon it, Lady Madelyne.” His voice had grown impatient, and he slashed his hand in the air as if to cut off any further protestations on her part.

  “As you wish, your majesty.” Madelyne stood humbly, shoulders straight, gaze slightly downcast, hands balled together at her waist.

  There was a prolonged silence as the king sipped again from his goblet, and it was broken as he set the cup down deliberately on a small table near his throne. “Lady Madelyne, you are now a ward of the king, and you shall fulfill your duties here in our court by serving her majesty, Queen Eleanor. We shall collect a fine from your father—Burland!” he called over to the scribe who had continued to huddle over a table, scratching at his parchment throughout the entire exchange. The scribe’s head popped up and he blinked blearily. “Burland, send you a notice to Fantin de Belgrume that we are assessing a fine as recompense for taking on the wardship of his daughter, Madelyne.”

  Gavin caught the glint of humor in the king’s eyes and could not resist a small grin. Henry did not miss the slightest chance to add to the royal coffers in any legitimate manner he could fabricate. Fantin would be murderous with rage when he received the notice, and there was naught he could do but pay it.

  He sobered as he looked at Madelyne again. She stood rigid as a statue, as cool and smooth and beautiful as a marble figure, silent as the men interacted about her. Again, a pang of guilt thrashed him, but he pushed it away. He was not responsible for the fact that she’d neglected to make her final vows, and that was the only reason she found herself in the current predicament.

  “You are dismissed, my lady. We shall expect to see you with the queen’s ladies hereforth.”

  “Thank you, your majesty.” Madelyne made a graceful curtsey, then turned and walked stiffly toward the door at the other end of the room.

  Gavin caught a glimpse of her set profile, but she did not look in his direction as she stepped past.

  He looked at Henry, whose own gaze followed Madelyne from the room. “’Twould be a sin for one as beautiful as she to take her holy vows,” Henry murmured with a wink at Gavin.

  Madelyne heard the king mumble something behind her, but she was so close to tears that she dared not turn to see if he yet spoke to her. A low rumble followed the king’s comment, and she presumed it was Gavin’s response. She did not look behind to her to ascertain whether Gavin followed. She would find her own way back to her chamber rather than wait for him.

  Holding her head high, she braced her shoulders at the door to the hallway. A page stood at the high oaken portal, opening it as she approached, and stepping aside so that she could find her way into the perpetual crowd that gathered out side of the chamber.

  People milled about in the large, open area, and Madelyne hurried through the throngs without noticing any of them. Dimly, she heard the page announce the king’s next audience, and then heard the door close firmly behind her.

  She still clutched her golden skirt in her hands, but kept her attention focused on the floor made of large gray stones as she hurried blindly away from the people. She paid no mind to where she was going, knowing she would likely become hopelessly lost in the vast warren of corridors and passages…but at the moment, all she wished was to get away .

  Her inattention caused her to stumble into someone, and she stepped aside, looking up to murmur an apology. When she raised her eyes up the tall form of the man standing in front of her and saw his face, she froze. All sensation fled her body, leaving her light of head and numb.

  “Madelyne. How good it is to see you again.” He smiled brilliantly, but she saw the odd gleam in his wild blue eyes.

  She could not speak at first, just gasped for air as fear and loathing rushed through her heavy limbs. Where had he come from? “What do you want?” she managed to say with amazing calmness. “Were you following me?”

  His smile turned chill. “Is that any way to greet your father?”

  Madelyne noted with alarm that they seemed to be in an unusually deserted corridor, and her heart swelled into her throat. She raised her chin, taking care to keep her voice low. “You are my father only by an accident of birth. I wish naught to do with you, my lord, so please step aside.” How could others miss that madness, that obsessive light in his eyes?

  Fantin’s hand snaked out to close around her arm before she could move past him, tightening into an immediate vise. �
��I’ll not suffer such words from you, Madelyne.” He jerked her once, quickly, but enough that her head snapped back. “Now, you’ll come with me, daughter. After ten years, ’tis more than my right to take you under my care.”

  Quelling the nausea of fear, Madelyne jammed her heel onto her father’s slippered foot and yanked on her arm. Although he grunted in pain, his grip was too tight and he curled his fingers around her arm even tighter, causing her to cry out in pain. “Let me be!” she cried, now hoping that someone would hear their altercation. Surely there couldn’t be any place in all of Whitehall that was deserted for long.

  “Be still!” he growled, propelling her down the empty hall, away from the faint noise of people. Her gown caught around her legs and she tripped, falling against the rough stone wall even as Fantin wrenched her arm to keep her on her feet. “I’ll have none of your tricks!” he snarled as she slammed up into the wall from the force of his yank. Pain burst in her shoulder and along her arm.

  “Unhand the girl, de Belgrume.” The steely voice cut through the air like a sword and Madelyne’s knees went weak with relief.

  “Step aside, Mal Verne!” Fantin whirled toward Gavin, a hand going to his belt and returning with a glittering dagger. “I’ll not have you in my way in this.”

  As Fantin manipulated them around, Madelyne saw Gavin through the fog of pain that had enveloped her. Even in her half-dazed state, she saw the rage blaring in his eyes.

  “I said unhand her.” Gavin’s voice was calm, but the violence lacing it sent a frisson of fear down Madelyne’s spine.

  Fantin held the dagger steady in his outstretched hand. The grip on Madelyne’s arm lessened as his attention swerved to the other man. “I suppose you think I ought to thank you for finding her for me, Mal Verne,” he sneered, “but ’twas truly God’s working and not any deed of yours.”