Sanctuary of Roses mhg-2

by Колин Глисон

  They froze like two hounds taking each other’s measure, then suddenly Gavin moved. Fantin gasped in pain as the younger man’s foot came in contact with his wrist, and the dagger flew through the air. With one quick movement, assisted by the surprise and pain that immobilized Fantin, Gavin grasped the man by the front of his fine tunic and slammed him up against the wall.

  Madelyne was able to pull free, and she retreated from the two men, rubbing her aching shoulder and bruised arm, and trembling from head to toe.

  “She is under the protection of the king,” Gavin gritted from between clenched teeth as his hand closed over Fantin’s throat.

  “The king?” Fantin’s voice had a decidedly unmasculine squeak to it.

  “The king,” Gavin affirmed in a calmer voice. He made as if to release him, but then it was as if the anger swept through him anew. Madelyne could tell by the renewed consternation on her father’s face just when Gavin’s fury returned. “Methinks I ought to put an end to this now,” he murmured in a terrible voice. “I ought to have finished you long ago.”

  Fantin’s face flushed darkly when the band of fingers constricted, just as his own had around Madelyne’s arm. “Your lack of success in doing just that is legendary, Mal Verne,” he managed to gasp. “What makes you believe you’ll succeed this time? ’Tis I who have God’s strength behind me!”

  Madelyne saw Gavin’s stone face darken, tightening murderously, and she muffled a gasp as she saw his intent. “Nay, Gavin, nay! Do not! ’Tis not right!”

  It was a long moment, and Madelyne fairly stopped breathing—but in the end, Gavin relented and abruptly loosed his grip on Fantin’s throat. The man slumped to his knees, pure loathing settling on his face, as he looked around Gavin to shoot a poison look at Madelyne.

  “Do you not fear, daughter—we shall meet again when you do not have your cowardly protector about. I’ll not let anyone stand in the way of our reunion—mark me well.” He struggled to his feet and smoothed a hand over his high, silvery-blond mane. Shooting a glare filled with loathing at Gavin, Fantin jeered, “Once again, sirrah, you have managed to hide behind the skirts of the king to get your way. Enjoy it whilst you have that advantage, for the king’s might is naught compared to that of my Lord’s.”

  His face just as dark and furious, Gavin forbore to respond. Instead, he merely watched as Fantin scuttled away. As soon as he was out of earshot, he turned to Madelyne. “’Tis no more than you deserve,” he snapped, glaring at her as she rubbed her shoulder. “Do you not go unescorted through this castle—or anywhere—Lady Madelyne, or the next time, I may not be able to intervene. Have I not already warned you of that folly?”

  “Once again, I owe you my thanks,” Madelyne replied from between lips stiffened to keep them from trembling. He was right in his anger and fury; he had warned her.

  “Come. I’ll see that you reach your chamber with no further incident.” He offered her a solid arm, and she winced when she raised her hand to accept it. “What? My lady, are you hurt?” Gavin stopped and peered searchingly at her.

  “Only a bit of an ache on my shoulder,” Madelyne replied evasively, still stung by his sharp reprimand, and stunned by all that had happened so quickly. She turned to continue walking, but he whirled her back to face him.

  “Wait.” The command gentled his voice as firm fingers gingerly felt along her arm, up along her shoulder. “I did not know he’d hurt you,” Gavin said, his mouth tightening when she winced at the probe of his forefinger. He looked down at her, and Madelyne recognized concern in his gray eyes. Their gazes met and held fast as the world slowed.

  Her breath caught in her throat and she suddenly became acutely aware of the warmth and heaviness of the fingers that were now caressing her arm. Despite the haze of disbelief and bewilderment that had benumbed her since her audience with King Henry, Madelyne felt her pulse leap. Heightened sensitivity blaze throughout her limbs. When Gavin’s other hand, large and brown, reached up to tuck away a lock of hair that had fallen from her coiffure, she thought she might stop breathing.

  Her lips parted slightly, fulling, as Madelyne looked up at him, and she saw his eyes flare wider for an instant before they narrowed.

  “The king has the right of it,” Gavin said in a low voice, “you are much too beautiful to be a nun.” His hand, which had hovered, raised, now lifted higher to slip a lock of hair behind her ear. He brushed along her jawline, sending warmth to suffuse her face.

  Then, his words registered through her foggy mind and sanity reigned. “Too beautiful?” Madelyne stepped away, backing into the damp stone wall, then shifting to the right. “What has beauty to do with anything?”

  Chagrin flooded his face and he dropped his hand back to his side. His features realigned into the familiar stone mask and his eyes took on a sardonic gleam. “’Tis no secret our king has an eye for comely women,” he replied.

  Madelyne tucked her fingers into her sleeves and turned away. “Then more’s the pity for her majesty the queen. And again, I ask, Lord Gavin,” she said, purposely using his title to reaffirm distance between them, “what has beauty to do with a woman’s religious vocation? Must I mutilate my face or shave my hair in order to be allowed to do that which I wish?” She swallowed heavily, barely able to keep her voice from breaking in frustration.

  “That would be a very foolish thing to do,” he responded quickly. “His majesty has already made his decision, and ’twould serve no purpose to harm yourself so—only to cause yourself pain.” He took her arm firmly—the one that did not pain her—and tucked it into the crook of his elbow. “Come, now, lady. I shall return you to your chamber so that your hurt can be seen to.”

  Fifteen

  Despite the fact that he’d just left Henry’s presence, Gavin was readmitted to the king’s courtroom upon his request. The courtier who had dismissed him an hour earlier swung the large oaken door open once again, bowing Gavin into the large room.

  “Aye, Gavin, what is it that brings you back so soon?” Henry griped, glancing up from a parchment missive that still had a bit of blue wax clinging to it.

  “De Belgrume is here. And he nearly relieved you of the wardship of his daughter.” Rage still simmered in his hands, causing them to clench and unclench in memory of Fantin’s soft neck.

  “What? Here? In my court?” Henry bolted from his chair. “How can that be? He has been banned for two winters!”

  “I do not know, but he would have made off with Madelyne had I not arrived on the scene as I did. I can only suspect that he was waiting without for an opportunity to grab her. You know as well as I the number of spies in this court.” Gavin stepped aside as his king stalked off the dais and past him to thrust the parchment he’d been holding into the face of his secretary, who sat, shoulders scrunched, in the corner.

  “And did you do no damage to the man?”

  Gavin’s mouth tightened. “I nearly sent the man to his grave. My hands were thus about his skinny neck.”

  “Nearly?” Henry bellowed. “Why in the blazes did you not rid me of that pestilence—and yourself of the same man who has taken so much from you?”

  “I could have, my lord…but she begged me stay my hand, and I did.”

  “Surely she does not care for his health. There was fear in her eyes when I mentioned his name.”

  “She is murderously afraid of the man, and moreso now that she has felt the madness again. But she is a nun—or meant to be—my liege, and she does not believe in wanton killing. She…prays for the souls of men of violence. Those such as you and I.”

  Henry gave him an assessing look. “You stayed your hand at the throat of your deepest enemy because a woman begged you to? You, Mal Verne—you who have been made a cuckold, a near-murderer, a laughing-stock by that man?” He scratched his wiry copper hair, shaking his head. “I would have rewarded you greatly should you have relieved my kingdom of such a pestilence.”

  Gavin swallowed annoyance at the reminder of de Belgrume’s sins upon himse
lf: all of them, and, too, the damage done to his cousin Judith. “Ah, but then you—in your infinite quest for justice—would have had to throw me in the dungeon for murder,” he reminded the king.

  “Many in the land know de Belgrume is mad—with all of his talk of finding the secrets of the ancients and turning metals into gold.”

  “Aye. The man has the flame of madness in his eyes that was not there even six moons ago. He spoke as if he was doing the Will of God, as if he had some power from the Almighty behind him,” Gavin replied, his face settling into soberness. “Many might know he is mad, as you have said, but others do not believe it, and are tricked into believing his work.” He didn’t need to mention Nicola or Gregory as two who had fallen to that trap.

  “We know he has been the cause of deaths, and unnecessary warring in the south,” Henry countered, sloshing wine into his cup. “And there is more, we suspect—but cannot prove.”

  “Aye. He is a wily man, taking care to protect himself—else you would have incarcerated him long ago. With no proof, I would be labeled the murderer of an innocent man.” Gavin frowned and directed the conversation away from his own shortcomings and to the purpose which had brought him there. “Madelyne needs to be protected, or he will try to take her again. That’s the reason I came back to your presence, your majesty…not to have my actions questioned yet again.”

  Henry raised a brow at Gavin’s tone, but merely replied, “Ah yes. The fair Madelyne. A source of excellent revenue for us now…but we will need to find her a husband sooner than I had wished.” Henry drank deeply, glancing at Gavin sidewise as he raised the cup. “It could be a possible task for you.”

  Gavin froze, then forced himself to breathe again. “Nay,” he said. “You know I have no wish to wed again. And in particular, no wish to wed a nun. Do—”

  Henry was stroking his moustache vehemently, his eyebrows raised high. “Gavin, ’tis not like you to jump to such conclusions. I meant not for you to wed with her. I well know that Nicola’s infidelity ruined you for any other woman. I meant only for you to find the best man to be her husband. One who can protect her from the madman, and one who does not mind wedding with a nun—a beautiful nun, might I remind you—in exchange for the fiefs that she will inherit when my lands are rid of Fantin de Belgrume.”

  Gavin steadied himself against the heavy chair that belonged to Eleanor. “Ah.” He felt foolish at his rash words, then suffocated by the thought that in searching for a proper husband for Madelyne, he would not yet be freed of her presence. Yet, he could not naysay the king when Gavin was the one who’d brought the problem to him. “As you will, my lord.”

  “So I leave you with yet another duty, Mal Verne. Two things I ask of you to take some of the weight from my burdened shoulders: find a husband for the nun, and rid me of de Belgrume. Do you not let me learn that he is still here at court! I will not have that madman slithering about my castle!”

  “Aye, your majesty.”

  * * *

  “Tavis, you have the right of it.” Fantin’s vision swam pink and damp as he dug each of his ten long fingernails—with which he used to pluck the strings of his lute—into his thighs. “I had the girl within my grasp, and Mal Verne interfered.”

  The rage still threatened to erupt within him, though he’d kept it at a simmer by fasting and praying for more than a day. Yet, Rufus was not here to lead him in his pleadings to God…and thus far, he’d received no response, no acknowledgement from Above. Was God angry with him for failing yet again?

  Nay. He could not believe that. He would not believe it. He, who had given his life for this quest in the name of the Lord, would not be forsaken by Him.

  “’Twas a great chance you took, entering the king’s court,” Tavis continued, offering his lord a goblet of wine. His eyes, round and dark and serious, reminded Fantin of the young Gregory, who’d also served him thus.

  ’Twas yet another reason he hated Mal Verne. Not only had the man had Nicola before Fantin, but Mal Verne had also taken from Fantin the young man he’d thought of as a son—slaughtering him in a battle at one of his holdings.

  Tavis waxed eager, but he did not have the cunning and intelligence Gregory had possessed. Had he not been the betrothed of Mal Verne’s own cousin—Judith—was that her name? Fantin frowned, trying to recall. It had been so long ago. Nearly four autumns, and the details of that time remained foggy in his mind. All he knew was that Gregory had been taken from him. By Gavin of Mal Verne.

  “Aye. None saw me, save Mal Verne and my daughter…yet, I’ll not risk being seen at court again.” The king had banned him long ago because of an incident in which Fantin had tried to gather a cluster of Henry’s own priests to join his holy quest—yet the king still continued to collect rents and taxes from him.

  Fantin would not suffer long that indignity. Nay, he would not.

  “I’ll leave my man Seton de Masin here, and also his cohort James of Mangewode to spy upon the workings here,” Fantin decided. “I must return to Father Rufus, for mayhap he will have the answer I cannot find.”

  “If we return to Tricourten, my lord, how then will you have your revenge upon Mal Verne?” asked Tavis. “You know he will be here for some time.”

  “Aye. Yet whilst he hides behind the skirts of the king, you and I shall plan his demise. And keep a watch over my beloved daughter. Mayhap…”

  Fantin thought for a moment, his thoughts settling into something clearer. The pink had faded. “Aye, ’tis best. I will stay here for a time—and you with me, Tavis. Instead, I will send de Masin and Mangewode back to Tricourten with a message for Rufus. We’ll wait here, in the town, out side of the court where we shall remain unknown. Thus, news of the king will reach us more readily, and de Masin can return with communication from Father Rufus.”

  He liked that plan. It felt right. Perchance God wished him to stay nearby the king and his whore, Eleanor of Aquitaine. Of all the women on this earth, she—with her sultry beauty and beckoning smile—had tempted and turned many. She had divorced her first husband, the king of France, a holier man than Henry could ever hope to be. The Whore Queen had led women on a farce of a Crusade to the most Holy of Lands, dressed in breeches like a man. Rumor had it that she and her uncle had fornicated whilst she was married to Louis of France…

  A bolt like lightning struck him, and Fantin stilled. The thought shot through him, and his breathing hitched faster, yet his heart rate slowed. The trembling of his hands ceased as the surety, the knowledge flowed through him.

  ’Twas so clear, so perfect, so attuned to his calling that Fantin knew this would be the final step in his work.

  At last his God had spoken. He understood why he must stay at court. And how his daughter could be of help to him. And why he had not managed to seize her yet.

  His lips shifted to one side. With one achingly beautiful act—and in the name of God—he would destroy Mal Verne and commit the final task in this journey on which he’d been sent.

  And then at last the secret of the Stone would be made clear to him.

  * * *

  The stone floor was cold and hard beneath her knees, and Madelyne shifted yet again to relieve the pressure. How long she’d been there, in the chapel, she did not know…but the rays of light that had been a dim moonbeam through the narrow windows were now strong golden streaks staggering across the uneven floor.

  Her beads were a comfort in her hands, but there was little else to bring her ease. All that lay before her was the darkness of unknowing, uncertainty, and fear.

  “Dear Father,” she prayed again, as she had so many times those last hours, “I wish only to do Your will…to live to serve You. I place my life in Your hands…I ask that you show me forgiveness for failing You and the vows I have made to You… ”

  Madelyne’s voice trailed as despair and fatigue overcame her. Now, as had been the case for hours, there was no lifting of response in her breast…no certainty that her prayers had been heard…no fulfillment of knowing t
hat her life was strong and had meaning.

  Had God turned from her, knowing that she’d failed to abide by the vows she’d meant to make? Or was this a test, challenge for her to overcome. And at the end of the challenge, should she meet it, would there be the comfort of knowing that she’d done His will—whatever it would be?

  Could it be that He wished for her to wed? To love a man and wed with him?

  A faint scuffle reached her ears, and a booted foot stepped into the realm of her downcast vision. She raised her head without hurry, swallowing the first innate fear that it was her father, and looked into the slightly shadowed face of a man too slim to be Gavin Mal Verne.

  “Lord Reginald,” she said, tempering the surprise she felt. “Do you come here to pray?” As he extended his hand, she accepted it and allowed him to assist her to stand.

  He smiled, a soft quirk of tenderness. “Nay, my lady, I but came in search of you. Your maid directed me to you here…she lamented that your absence had been noted but that she had a fear of leaving the chambers to come in search of you.”

  Madelyne raised her brows in surprise. “Tricky had a fear of leaving the chamber?”

  “A large, burly man had been posted out side of the door,” Reginald told her, slipping her hand smoothly into the crook of his arm. “’Twas only because your maid had sent for me that I gained audience with her. She called him Clem, and he allowed me to speak briefly with her.”

  “My maid sent for you?” Madelyne felt a flush rise over her cheeks and pulled her arm from his, clasping her hands in front of her abdomen. Whatever Tricky’s purpose in doing such a bold thing, she would receive a tongue lashing from Madelyne at the first opportunity. Such a transgression was not to be tolerated, even from the sunny-faced Tricky. “Please accept my apologies, Lord Reginald, for my maid’s interference—”