Sanctuary of Roses

Sanctuary of
Roses

by Colleen Gleason

A book in the Medieval Herb
Garden Series

Sanctuary of Roses

Colleen Gleason

Smashwords Edition

© 2011 Colleen Gleason, Inc.

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by Colleen Gleason

Prologue

Tricourten Keep

England, 1132

“Come, Maddie,” Lady Anne of Tricourten
urged. “We’ve only till the end of Seton’s watch at the gate.” Her
voice, usually steady unless she was confronted by her husband
Fantin, wavered as she glanced out the arrow-slit window in her
solar.

Madelyne, though only ten, recognized the
fear and desperation in her mother’s eyes, and swallowed back her
own terror. If her father found them, caught them leaving…nay. She
would not allow the thought into her mind. Drawing the heavy cloak
about her shoulders, Madelyne caught up its overlong hem and pulled
the hood to cover her hair.

Anne opened the door of her solar, and,
grasping her daughter’s smaller hand in her cool one, led the way
into the dark corridor. The edges of their rough woolen cloaks
brushed silently along the cold stone floor, and the coarse
material prickled Madelyne’s neck and wrists. A mere torch lit the
end of the corridor that began at the stairs descending to the
Great Hall, where the sounds of drunken revelry reverberated among
the rafters.

A great lump formed in the back of
Madelyne’s throat when they paused at the top of the stair. One
more step and they would be in view of anyone who cared to notice
two darkly-cloaked figures inching their way down the stone stairs
and across the rear of the hall. Her mother’s fingers clasped more
tightly around hers, hesitating…and then she stepped forward and
down.

Their descent was swift as they huddled
along the stone wall, trying to blend with the shadows. Once upon
the floor of the hall, Anne released Madelyne’s hand and darted
through a shaft of light thrown by a torch, stopping in a shadowy
corner. She turned back to her daughter and gestured:
Come,
quickly.

Swallowing heavily, Madelyne looked out over
the hall, where more flickering torches and the blazing fire at the
other end lit the room enough for her to see the sweat rolling down
the faces of the revelers.

Her father, Fantin de Belgrume, Lord of
Tricourten, sat at the high table, holding a goblet aloft. His pale
blond hair gleamed like wheat shifting in the sun, and his chill
laugh sliced through the other noises to settle over Madelyne. She
shrank back into the shadows when he looked toward the rear of the
hall, fear rising in her throat. For a moment, all time halted and
it seemed as though she could hear her heart pounding over the
cacophony in the hall.

Relief washed over her when he shifted his
gaze without pausing, and Madelyne suddenly became aware that her
mother had moved further toward the door leading to freedom, even
as she gestured for her to follow. Madelyne took a deep breath and
hurried through the patch of light, gratefully melding into the
dimness beyond the torch.

One of the hounds her father favored raised
its head as she passed by, lifting the corner of its lip to show a
sharp fang. Madelyne skirted around him, wishing she had a bone or
aught to throw to the demon, and tried to ignore the low growl that
rumbled in its throat. If the dog began to bark….

She forced herself to keep walking, and at
last she reached a small alcove just adjacent to the door of the
keep. Anne waited in this shadow, and, after a quick, hard embrace,
she drew her daughter toward the large oaken door. It was slightly
ajar to allow men-at-arms, hounds, smoke, and air to pass within
and without the keep, and once through this entrance, they would be
closer to freedom than Maddie had ever dreamed.

Thus ’twas with overwhelming relief that she
followed her mother as she slipped through the opening and found
herself huddled against the outside of the castle wall, blinking up
at the quarter moon and starry sky.

“Praise Mary,” Anne murmured, and, adjusting
the small parcel she wore under her cloak, grasped her daughter’s
hand yet again.

The walk across the bailey to the side
entrance, where Sir Seton de Masin stood his watch, was short. They
stopped at the edge of the pool of light that spilled onto the
earth, encircling the doorway. Madelyne stood to one side as her
mother spoke in hushed tones to the red-haired man. She tried to
ignore the starkness on the knight’s face as he took her mother’s
hands in his, and Madelyne looked away when Anne tipped her face
for the man to bestow a kiss on her lips.

A kiss of peace ’twas not.

Her mother’s low tones became audible with
emotion as she bid farewell to the man who would help them escape.
“God be with you, Seton,” she said, and Madelyne saw her caress his
face with her palm. Then, as if she could no longer bear to look
upon him, Anne turned to her daughter, once again taking her
hand.

The door, heavy with thick wooden planks and
iron bars and studs, inched open just enough for the two figures to
slip through.

“Fare thee well, my love,” Seton’s voice
carried quietly on the night’s breeze. “God be with you.”

One

Ten years later

If they did not reach shelter soon, they
would die.

The realization settled over him, wrapping
him in calmness, even as the blood flowed from his wounds. ’Twould
not be unwelcome, death, Gavin thought. His only regret would be
his failure to take Fantin de Belgrume with him.

Rain poured from the gray heavens, thunder
crashed with arrogance, and great, uncontrollable shivers wracked
his body. The smell of blood and storms and death pervaded his
nostrils. Sleepiness stole over him and his eyelids felt like
massive weights.

“Gavin!”

The sound of his name, urgent, stole the
calmness from him and he forced himself to sit upright in the
saddle. Of a sudden, the desire to die was gone—the dark moment
vanished—leaving the responsibility for the health of his knights
foremost in his mind…and the bitterness of revenge burning in his
heart.

“Gavin, look you there! ’Tis a gate!” Thomas
Clervorne pointed with his bloodied sword. They’d not even had the
time to clean their weapons, Gavin thought bitterly.

He turned in his saddle, knees pressing the
shoulders of Rule, his war horse, and peered through the sheets of
rain. Aye, there it was, barely visible through the trees and gray
rain: a large, stone wall interrupted by a heavy gate.

“To me!
Á moi
!” Gavin bellowed, and
the men he led—numbering only ten instead of the fifty he’d begun
with—directed their weary mounts in his wake. Thomas had already
reached the gate, and was pulling the rope that hung next to it as
they gathered about.

The hollow sound of a bell tolling echoed, its tones
eerie and distorted through the downpour. The men waited, their
horses shuffling and snorting with the desire to feed and bed down.
Gavin’s head lightened as blood continued to seep down his side,
providing the only warmth save that of Rule beneath his legs.

“Do those within have no pity?” Thomas growled,
tugging at the rope more vigorously, and again the bell
sounded.

At last, just when Gavin was preparing to
curse those who resided beyond the gate for their inhumanity, his
glazing eyes discerned a small figure making its way toward the
portcullis. He pressed Rule forward, reaching the iron bars just as
its inhabitant did.

“Aye, my lords? You wish shelter? An’ who be
ye?”

He saw that the figure was naught but an old
crone, cloaked in dark garb and stooped with age. “Lord Gavin of
Mal Verne, Lord Thomas of Clervorne, and ten men-at-arms,
mistress.” He had to concentrate to keep his voice steady and
strong as a flash of light before his eyes told him he was
weakening further. “We have wounded among us, and beg for shelter
and, if you have it, care for our ills.”

Even swallowing was painful, and, as he
waited for the woman’s response, the gate seemed to tip onto its
side and then right itself.

Then the gate swung open, and the woman
stepped aside. “My lords, you are well come to Lock Rose Abbey,”
she said in a strong voice that did not match her frail figure.
“Come.”

The men filed their horses through the
entrance, then waited as she slammed the gate shut behind them. She
shuffled along, leading them across a large bailey that had been
cleared of the forest surrounding the stone wall, and paused at an
outbuilding.

“You’ll see to your own horses,” she said
without preamble, “as we’ve only one marshal and she is ill.”

Gavin slid from the saddle, landing on his
feet with a hard thump, and leaned against Rule. Standing made his
head spin harder, and nausea well in his throat. Before he could
take a step toward the stable, he felt an arm slide around his
waist, bracing him. Thomas’s voice registered dimly as it snapped,
“Clem, see to Mal Verne’s horse. Mistress, take us to a bed for
him.”

The wound in his side stung like boiled
pitch, and Gavin fought back a groan as Thomas, weak himself from
his own hurts, supported him through a seemingly endless walk.

Just as he felt the final vestiges of
clarity leaving, Gavin saw the pallet meant for him and allowed his
knees to buckle. His last impression was of the prickly comfort of
a straw-stuffed bed.

* * *

“He has no sign of fever, my lord. I’ve
packed the wound with a poultice and he must rest anon.”

Gavin slowly became aware of the voices. The
first was a gentle, female one, and ’twas followed by the rough,
familiar one of Thomas Clervorne.

“He’ll heal, then?”

“Aye, if the fever does not come.”

Gavin tried to pry his eyelids open so that
he could see the face that belonged to the silky, calm voice. She
continued speaking as he struggled to focus. “Though the sword cut
deep, the blood clotted well and we were able to sew the gap
closed.”

At last: his lids cooperated and he focused
on the face of the one dabbing something cool on his sore arm. When
he saw the visage bent near his, he nearly recoiled at the shock.
The face did not match the beautiful voice.

’Twas that of an old woman: a long
countenance with wrinkles woven in the skin and brown spots
everywhere. Her eyes were watery and gray, and the lower lids
gapped away to show deep, red pockets. She wore a wimple that
covered her entire head but for the face that, though horridly
ugly, carried peace in its expression.

“He wakes.” This voice was old and thready,
and emitted from the elderly woman’s shriveled lips.

Then two others were at his side, looking
down upon him. One was Thomas, Gavin’s oldest friend, and the other
was the Madonna.

Indeed, she had to be an unearthly being,
for he’d never seen such beauty and serenity on the face of a
mortal. Her eyes were luminous gray moonstones glowing in a perfect
oval face framed by a nun’s veil. High cheekbones created smooth
hollows in fair, ivory skin, unmarked but for a small freckle near
one eyebrow. The mouth that curved into a pleased smile was sweetly
formed of soft pink lips that were neither too narrow nor too
full.

“How do you feel?” It was the voice again,
the mellow, soft one to which he’d awakened. The one that fit this
face. “Can you speak, my lord?”

Gavin knew what he wanted to say, but he
hadn’t the energy to form the words. When she offered him a sip of
water, ’twas all he could do to open his lips as she pressed a cup
to his mouth. The wooden vessel felt rough against him, but the
water slid, cool and smooth, down his parched throat.

“The others have been tended to.” ’Twas
Thomas speaking, almost as if he knew what his lord meant to ask.
With effort, Gavin turned his head toward him. “John and Robert
have the fever and are being watched, but the others have lesser
hurts and will most like recover fully.”

“Where are we?” Gavin forced the words from
his throat, and they came forth like guttural groans.

“Lock Rose Abbey.” It was the woman—the
Madonna—speaking again. “I’m surprised you found us, for we are
well-hidden—as is our intent.”

Gavin vaguely remembered the cloying forest
and how the gate to the abbey seemed to rise from nowhere. He
nodded painfully, and managed to speak again. “Where is this
place?”

“Deep in the forest, several leagues from
Mancassel. Few there even know of our existence.”