by Колин Глисон
If Fantin believed his God had been betrayed, then nothing would save her now. She held back a whimper. Nay. She did not live a life without hope.
And then hope, in the form of Tricky, seized her attention.
Madelyne saw her maid moving on the floor, wriggling, somehow no longer attached to her stool, no longer bound.
Quickly averting her eyes, she raised them to meet Fantin’s. Mayhap…
“Fath—my lord,” she said, struggling to keep her voice calm. “My lord, may—”
“Silence!” he shouted, spittle flying into her face. Madelyne reared against the stones, away from the sudden recurrence of rage.
He seemed to consider her for a moment. “What is it you wish to say?”
“The queen… ”
Those were the only words necessary. “The whore! She yet lives, or so I hear from Rohan, my faithful man.” He slammed his foot into Seton’s unmoving body upon those words.
Madelyne’s unspoken question was thus answered. “Why did you poison the necklet?” she asked, using every last vestige of energy to force the words from her lips, seizing upon anything that might keep Fantin’s attention from the figure that slinked under the tables. A quick glance showed Madelyne that Tavis had not noticed Tricky’s movements.
Nay, blessedly, he stared, enraptured by the exchange betwixt herself and Fantin.
“She is the greatest of all whores,” Fantin told her. “She must die—’tis God’s will. She must be purged from this earth, just as Mal Verne must be, just as his slut of a wife was, and as you shall be!” Red veins burst in the whites of his eyes as he screamed these last words at her, and Madelyne struggled to keep from bursting into tears.
He whirled from her, and Madelyne’s heart froze. If he saw that Tricky was near the door and the stairs… Nay, he did not! He whirled back around with the same bloodied sword that had sent the priest to his death. She recoiled when he rose toward her, the silver blade glinting and dully blooded in a macabre pattern, and drew it back to swing.
She tensed, closing her eyes.
“Master! The girl is escaping!”
Madelyne’s eyes snapped open in time to see the blade swipe past her, slicing harmlessly through her skirts, and clashing into the stones behind her.
“After her!” Fantin shouted at his man, who had already mounted the stairs. He turned to glare at Madelyne. “Do you not find hope in this,” he sneered, “for she will not make it to your husband. If indeed he lurks about, she will find no way to allow him into the keep. You are safe here with me,” he added, and laughed…that self-same laugh that came with his madness.
He sank to his knees, there in front of her, and began to pray.
She had never heard anything more terrifying.
* * *
At last…at last.
Gavin heard the faint sound of scraping on the inside of the door. He need say naught, for his men saw the straightening of his spine and the tensing of his arms. They shifted quickly to their places.
The door eased open and they remained in the shadows, waiting.
“My lord!” a voice hissed.
’Twas unexpectedly a female voice, and Gavin moved, forgetting all caution. “Tricky?” he started, leaping through the open doorway, followed by his men.
Inside the gateway, he found himself surrounded by swords and chain mail.
Despite the surprise, Gavin did not falter, did not hesitate. He exploded.
His blade flashed and gleamed, striking out with all the strength he’d harbored these last days—these days of holding himself in check, of hell on earth, since Maddie had been taken. These men waiting him could be no match for his rage and need, regardless of their numbers. He would have them all for daring to stand in his way.
Gavin was barely aware of his own men behind and about him, brandishing weapons seeking to be as quick and deadly as his own, slicing through mail and flesh and clanging against more metal. His world was a blur, a mass of steel, noise, cries and grunts—yet Gavin saw with clarity every movement he made, every step and thrust of the blade, every shift and dodge and swing. They brought him closer to his goal.
He didn’t know how many men he sliced or stabbed, but when at last no one raised a blade to him, he paused only for a moment, panting, yet not fatigued, and looked around.
Jube and two other of his men stood to one side, watching with wide eyes. They looked as though they’d been there for some time, watching some exhibition or contest. Their eyes fastened upon Gavin as though they weren’t certain ’twas truly he…and Tricky, who’d been held prisoner by one of the Tricourten men at the beginning of the battle, now peeked from behind splayed fingers, peering from around a corner.
“What ails you?” Gavin shouted, infuriated by their immobility. “Why do you stand and stare? We must find Madelyne. Tricky—where is she kept?”
His roar prodded them into movement. It was only as Gavin started to follow the little maid and had to step over arms and legs and heads and feet—none of which remained attached to their respective bodies, but were scattered all over the ground—did he realize he had been afflicted with his own madness.
* * *
Fantin rose to his feet in front of Madelyne, still mouthing words of supplication. The sounds from above had made it known that some battle raged beyond the rafters of the ceiling.
His pleading, groveling, praising sent squirrelly shivers down Madelyne’s spine and they coiled like snakes in the pit of her stomach. It was eerie and nauseating the way he continued to pray and implore God to help him, to show him the way, to give him the Stone.
He faced her, and what she saw there made her knees buckle as all strength drained from her body. His countenance glowed…shone with joy and light and fervor, even as the light in his eyes gleamed and his mouth continued to dribble the tiny trickle of wetness from one corner. His mind had truly gone, and madness—religious madness—blossomed within him.
What strength had he now? All the strength that comes with righteousness, and belief and faith. Madelyne knew the strength that came with belief. And when she saw it lining his face, she feared it.
Fantin flitted about the room, his lips still moving, moving bowls and jugs and jars, gripping his sword. He found a large jug and removed the cork, trickling its contents along the edge of the floor, along in front of Madelyne, around Seton’s prone body and to the feet of Clem, who remained bound against another wall.
She smelled the rancid scent of pig fat, and felt its greasiness splash against her skirts, and watched in horror as a gleeful Fantin seized one of the many sconces along the wall.
“You and your father shall burn on earth as you will burn in hell,” he told her, pivoting about as he swiped the torch through the air, leaving an arc of smoke in its wake. Fantin dropped the torch and the grease eagerly sucked the flames into its trail, instantly billowing rancid smoke into the air, and seeping along toward her.
“May God be with you,” Fantin shouted gleefully, dashing on light feet toward the stairs after saluting her with his sword.
Madelyne watched in horror as he disappeared up the steps, and the flames began to eat the wooden trestle tables and the tapestries that covered the walls. The smoke grew thicker, the flames closer and hotter.
She pulled in vain at the irons that still imprisoned her arms. Her fingers had long turned to ice from loss of blood and the dampness of the dungeon-laboratory. Seton remained unconscious at her feet, and Clem, across the room, struggled with his own bonds.
The flames burned higher, and closer, and Madelyne felt the heat as it struggled toward her skirts. She kicked out and to the side, frantic, whipping her gown around her legs, trying to move away from the pools of grease that would soon be consumed by fire. There was naught she could do.
Gavin.
He would come soon. He must come soon.
She, too, had the strength of faith and belief.
* * *
A door—the door to which Tricky had been l
eading him—flew open, and Gavin suddenly was face to face with his nemesis.
“De Belgrume!” he cried, leaping at the man who’d emerged from a stairwell.
The man was prepared for him, and swung his blade as Gavin moved. Heat sliced down his arm, and Gavin shouted with rage and victory. Fantin had drawn first blood, but Gavin would take the last.
With a swift movement, Fantin slammed the door behind him and whirled, swinging his sword again. This time, Gavin easily dodged the thrust, and returned with his own blade, slamming against the man’s side.
“Your whore burns below,” Fantin gasped, feinting and then thrusting in one fluid movement. “You must go through me to reach her, but you cannot get there in time.”
He laughed, then, easily, as though he’d had the greatest jest, and his blade met Gavin’s. Chill raced up Gavin’s back. He’d never felt such burning rage and taste for blood, but the man before him had a calmness…an easy humor, a glow, that bespoke of some inner strength—much like that which had attracted Gavin to the man’s daughter.
Sweat ran in his eyes, and Gavin dashed it away as he rammed toward Fantin. The other man raised his sword and their blades clashed, pressing against each other as if frozen in mid-air, each man pushing with every bit of need and will he possessed. At last, the metals slid, and the swords moved, freeing them from the stalemate. Gavin didn’t waste the moment by drawing back. Instead, he whirled, kicked, and thrust all at once, and suddenly, Fantin was away from the door, shrieking in unexpected pain.
Gavin propelled himself toward it, just as his opponent lunged forward. With barely enough time to block the move, Gavin whipped his sword and caught the downward stroke. He still had the door, and with a massive cry, he yanked it full open.
Fantin leaped toward him, and Gavin dodged, but misstepped, falling through the doorway and feeling naught but air beneath his foot. Off-balance, he began to tumble, and with one miraculous movement, snagged Fantin’s tunic, dragging him with him.
The edges of the stone stairs slammed into his shoulders and legs as he tumbled down, letting his sword go to fall before him. Gavin thumped to the floor just after the clang of his sword, and had the moment to grab it then peer around the chamber choked with smoke before turning to face Fantin.
When he rose to his feet, the man had lost that aura of holiness. His face, streaked with grime, and his eyes burning in a face of pure fury reflected a loss of control, along with the self-same determination to win that Gavin felt.
Fantin’s movements came, then, faster, harder, but more erratic than before. Gavin spared a look toward the wall where he’d seen a white-garbed form through the spirals of smoke, his heart sagging when he saw that it did not move. Fantin took that advantage and slammed his sword with such two-handed force that Gavin lost his grip and the weapon spun from his hand.
Now weaponless, he felt the surge of desperation and need, and launched himself to the side as Fantin drove what he’d intended to be the death stroke. Gavin flipped a stool toward his opponent, catching him in the gut, and with one sharp, swift lurch, snagged Fantin’s sword wrist and gave a vicious twist. The bones snapped horribly.
Fantin screamed and dropped his weapon, whirling toward a sconce that flamed behind him on the one wall untouched by smoke, but Gavin moved too quickly. The sword was in his hand, and slicing into his opponent’s chest before the man could snatch the torch.
Fantin screamed and sagged to the ground in a hopeless pool of blood and tattered clothing. Gavin yanked the blade from the bone where it had lodged, feeling the scrape against cartilage, and plunged it back in with two powerful arms. He took no chances that the man’s deep strength should come back to haunt him.
As he turned to chamber, the sound of footfalls down the stairs alerted him. ’Twas his name being called, and Gavin shouted back between inhaling the thick, choking smoke. He had no moment to wonder what had taken them so long as Jube and the others stumbled down the stairs. They didn’t need to be directed to the slumped man against the far wall.
Gavin launched himself over a table to Madelyne’s side, where she sagged against the wall, her face turned into the sleeve of her garment in an effort to keep the smoke at bay. He registered the chains that bound her and the fallen man at her feet, shouting for help.
The wrist manacles kept his wife tight to the wall, and the flames licked only inches away. Gavin, his face so tight to his skull that he could barely form words with his mouth, gasped, “Madelyne, hold tight! Do not move!”
With every last bit of strength, channeling every iota of the desperation and fear he’d harbored, he seized his weapon with two powerful hands and brought it down onto the chains.
One of them snapped loose, and Madelyne sagged from the wall, toward, him, hanging only by her arm. He wrapped an arm around her waist, coughing into her hair, then released her to slam the sword down a second time. The stones held the chains more firmly, and this side did not release. The smoke clogged his nose and stung his eyes, and the warmth the flames made sent waves of sweat rolling down his back, dampening his hands.
“Dear God, help me!” he cried, and slammed the sword down again.
The reverberation sang through his arms, into his shoulders, and down his spine as the blade pulled the chain from the stone and crashed into the floor.
Madelyne fell into his arms, and Gavin swooped her up over his shoulder and turned to dash from the room. The flames had built higher, cutting a swath betwixt them and the stairs. By the speed of the fire, he realized his entire altercation with Fantin had been mere breaths of time rather than the long minutes it had seemed.
With a cry, one of battle and victory, Gavin tore toward the flames, dashing through them, feeling their heat sear them as he leapt through and stumbled to the stairs on the other side.
Jube stood there, waiting, and grabbed Madelyne from his master. They pounded up the stairs and collapsed on the floor in the great hall.
Gathering Madelyne into his arms, Gavin inserted himself betwixt her and Jube and pulled her to his chest. Kissing her head, her face, her mouth, he found himself murmuring wild things that made no sense…and at last had to pull himself away to look at her.
“Madelyne… ” was all he could say before crushing her into his arms, folding her tightly to his chest. He shook, knowing how close he’d come to losing her…over and over again. “God, Madelyne, I love you. I died a decade of deaths when I learned that Fantin had taken you. I begged the king to release me, and he did, but—”
“It was Fantin,” she told him, smothered against his chest, coughing softly. “Tricky heard him say it, and Clem too…he fixed the necklet for the queen, with the help of Rohan…the king will not say another word on it, I trow.” She kissed him at the vee opening of his tunic, her lips warm on his skin at the indentation at the base of his throat.
“I hope you are right in that,” he told her. “But I cannot help but agree—now that Fantin is gone, Henry will be much relieved.”
“Gavin.” Madelyne clutched at his arm, pulling away to look up at him, her sunken gray eyes like large moons. “I cannot believe this…but I have just learned that my father is not Fantin. ’Tis the markings on my wrist—Seton has them too, as his mother, and her father… I am the daughter of Seton de Masin, not Fantin de Belgrume!”
A rush of happiness and relief—for Madelyne, not for himself—flooded Gavin. “Did I not tell you that there was no madness in your blood? Only the blood of a brave and intelligent man, my love. We have much to thank him for.” He glanced at Seton, who, though slumped against the wall, appeared to be unharmed.
“He’ll be overjoyed to know that my mother is not dead.”
“Your mother?” Gavin stopped, staring down at her. “Your mother lives?” He saw the stricken look in her eyes, and knew that she’d forgotten the lie.
“Nay, she is not dead. I could not let the truth come out, Gavin…you understand why. But—oh, I’ve spoken treason to the king.” Fear leapt into her eyes
and she clutched at his arms.
“The king will not harm you for protecting her as you did. And if he should try, I do believe Eleanor would stay his hand.” He kissed her on the cheek, amazed at the strength his little nun had shown over the last month of trial. “There is the matter of the land of Tricourten and whether you shall remain its lady…but I’ve wealth enough that should the king decide that you will not inherit, ’twill be no hardship.”
“Aye, Gavin, and truth to tell, I should not care if I ever were to set foot upon the lands of Tricourten again.”
“You will not, if you do not wish, my love. But I should not disavow the rents here, should the king allow us to keep the lands. I shall speak with him on it, my lady. My love.”
Content with his response, Madelyne glanced over his shoulder and what she saw made her smile. “You may beg my forgiveness now, my lord,” she said, nodding in that direction.
Gavin followed her gaze, twisting to look behind him, and saw Tricky and Clem entwined in a passionate embrace. He returned to his own love and gave her a rueful smile. “I beg your forgiveness, my lady…for doubting the prediction of your maid—it appears that she will have her way and her man.”
He looked at her closely and saw, again, the bruises on her face and the streaks of blood dried on her cheek, and realized what she must have experienced at the hands of the madman. The pace of his heart picked up speed, and a shudder rushed through him. “Madelyne, my love… can you forgive me for letting this happen?”
She tilted her head back to look up at him. “Gavin, love, please do not speak of apologies to me any longer. You have a penchant for speaking them much too oft! Save them for when you neglect the anniversary of our wedding or forget to bring me a new herbal plant when you travel to London…But for now, just kiss me.”
Epilogue
A lone knight approached the ivy-covered walls of Lock Rose Abbey.
Dismounting from his horse, he raised a mailed fist to pull on the bell rope, remembering the day over a decade before when he’d done the same. The low, rolling sound of the tolling bell rumbled through the abbey, reverberating through the silent forest.
