Sanctuary of Roses (3 page)

“Behind stone walls you find freedom?” The
derision showed in his face.

Madelyne turned away to retrieve clean
wrappings, and when she came back to his side, she braced herself
to look directly into those stone gray eyes. “Freedom from death
and warfare, aye—freedom from the life you live all the day. And we
have also the freedom to learn, to read and to write, to study…and
freedom from the men who would rule our lives.” Even as the tart
words came from her mouth, she regretted them. She felt suddenly
that if she spoke of the liberties allowed monastic women, they’d
be taken away all that quickly.

He was silent for a moment, measuring her
with his eyes, as her words hung between them. When he spoke at
last, his tone was flat and scornful. “The good sisters have taught
you well. Have you been here since birth, then? A youngest daughter
sent with a dowry to the Church to ensure that her father will find
his way to heaven?”

“I’ve been here long enough to know that
I’ve more freedom behind these walls than not. I would never leave
here.” Unsurprised that he, a man, should not understand why she
chose her life, Madelyne turned back to her work table. “Rest you
now.”

* * *

They would be leaving anon.

Mayhaps he would miss the serenity of the
abbey, Gavin thought wryly as he sat on a large rock in the bailey.
More like, he would forget it as soon as he rode without its
walls.

He must return to the world, to the
blackness of his vengeance upon Fantin de Belgrume…to the bleakness
that awaited him, and to the anger that had become so much a part
of him. No one waited for him without these walls, not even
Judith—though his life had become naught but a tool to avenge her
pain. Gavin would see her—and, yes, himself—vindicated, and
then…aye, then he would happily succumb to the hand of death if he
were so called.

A presence eased into his consciousness just
as its person moved: gracefully, calmly. Gavin turned and looked up
into the face of the nun he still thought of as the Madonna.

“You are well enough to ride,” she commented
in her low, quiet voice. “I’ve brought you a last draught to sip
ere you leave.”

She handed him a silver cup, engraved with
likenesses of the roses that grew throughout the abbey. The sleeve
of her habit slid back from her hand, exposing a slim, white wrist.
A trio of freckles formed a small triangle on the delicate,
blue-veined skin and he caught her fingers before she withdrew,
turning her hand to look at them.

“Unusual.” He looked up into her startled
moonstone eyes. With a finger, he traced the three beauty marks,
trying to recall why such a marking was familiar. Her flesh was
smooth, and softer than anything he’d touched in many a moon. He
felt the thrumming of her pulse under his thumb.

Sister Madelyne pulled her hand away with a
firmness belied by the decorum of her movements and looked
pointedly at his cup. “Do you drink that I may return the cup to
the infirmary.”

Gavin obliged, suddenly anxious to be on his
way—away from the tempting tranquility of the abbey, and away from
this woman whose inner peace caused her to be more beautiful than
was right. The liquid tasted bitter, with an aftertaste of wood—but
’twas no worse than any other concoction she’d foisted upon him
during his convalescence. He took three large gulps, then rested
his tongue from the rank taste. The nun watched him, her hands
folded at her waist, and he noticed a small rope of beads dangling
from one wrist.

He peered at the black beads, then looked
questioningly at her. “A necklet for a nun?” He was not quite able
to keep the irony from his voice.

She looked down, then slipped the rope over
her hand and proffered it to him. “My lord, ’tis only my prayer
beads.”

He took them, fingering the awkwardly-shaped
nodules. They were made of some rough black material, and a faint
scent of roses clung to them. When he raised his head to look
questioningly at her, he felt a momentary dizziness that evaporated
when their gazes met. “How did you come by these beads?” he asked,
his tongue suddenly thick. “How are they made?”

“They are formed from rose petals,” she told
him. “I made them when I first came to the abbey.” Her brows drew
together. “How do you feel?”

Gavin blinked, feeling the dizziness once
again. “I am well,” he lied, trying to focus on the beads he still
clutched in his hands. “How can one make beads from flowers?”

Her voice came from afar. “The petals are
stewed for hours over a low flame.” She leaned closer, her presence
surrounding him, and he felt rather than saw her fingers brush over
his forehead and into his hair. “Do you feel light of head, my
lord?”

“Nay,” he forced the words from his lips
even as shadows dimmed the edges of his vision.

“God be with you,” he heard that calm voice
say as he slipped into nothingness.

Three

Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.

Madelyne clenched her hands together and
tried to banish the last memory of Gavin of Mal Verne from her
mind. ’Twas her punishment, his haunting of her consciousness, for
tricking him as she had.

Her fingers dug into the dry, unpolished
wood of the
prie dieu
even as her knees pressed into its
uneven hardness. A splinter shot under a fingernail, and Madelyne
winced but made no move to dislodge it. The pain would be her
penance…the pain and that surprising sense of loss now that he was
gone from her life.

“Madelyne.”

The sound of her name pulled her from more
fervent prayers, and she looked up into the round face of Sister
Patricka.

“The Mother wishes to speak with you.”
Patricka offered a hand to assist Madelyne to her feet. “Maddie,
are you unwell?” There was concern in her blue eyes.

“Nay.” Madelyne smiled at her friend—one of
the only other inhabitants of the abbey who was near her in age.
“’Tis only a guilty conscience that ails me.”

“Ah.” Patricka scrutinized her closely, and
Madelyne looked away, fearing that her friend would see that more
than a guilty conscience pricked at her. “Mother awaits you in her
chamber.”

Madelyne tucked her fingers into the cuff of
her sleeves, the absence of her prayer beads painfully conspicuous
as she hurried along a hallway to Mother Bertilde’s office.

The door was closed. Madelyne knocked, then
stepped back and waited with an inclined head. When the oaken door
swung open, she was surprised to see her own mother, Lady Anne,
inviting her within.

“Mama. Mother Bertilde.” Madelyne gave a
brief curtsey, then a quick embrace to Anne, taking care not to
knock their wimples askew.

“You have spent much time in the chapel as
of late.” Bertilde spoke without preamble from her cushioned
armchair. “Do you not tell me that your conscience is still plagued
by that which needed to be done.”

Madelyne lowered her eyes to look at the
stone floor and curled her hands together. A twinge from the
splinter still embedded under her nail surprised her, and she
rubbed at the tender spot. She saw the glide of her mother’s dark
robe along the stones as she moved to sit near the abbess. “I
regret that ’twas necessary to resort to trickery in dismissing
Lord Mal Verne and his men from our abbey.”

“’Twas necessary, Madelyne!” Anne spoke. “As
long as Fantin lives, we cannot chance that word of our existence
reach him. ’Twas necessary to remove those men from the abbey
whilst they slept, likening the chance that they’ll not find their
way to return.”

“But to drug them!” Madelyne looked at
Bertilde, and then back to her mother. “They could not know who I
am. And Mama, you remained hidden during their respite here. ’Tis
impossible that they should recognize you! Father, if he lives
still, cannot hurt us when there is no one to carry tales to
him.”

“He lives still,” Anne said, her voice still
and heavy.

“Madelyne, child,” Bertilde said, offering
her hand to the younger woman. “You speak aright—’tis most unlikely
that Gavin of Mal Verne should be the cause of Fantin de Belgrume
learning that you and Anne are here…yet, when those men came within
these walls, I sensed that no good would follow. They are gone
nearly a fortnight, and that fear has not left me.”

When Madelyne took the large, capable hand,
she was drawn into the abbess’s arms, enfolded in the softness of
her linen habit and hint of musky incense. The ease that usually
came with such an embrace did not, and all at once, she felt tears
sting her eyes. Mayhaps Bertilde spoke correctly and the safe idyll
that she and her mother had found would be destroyed. The mother
abbess was closer to God than anyone else Madelyne knew…mayhaps He
had spoken to her.

“Madelyne…you did not talk of your past
whilst you tended to their wounds, did you?” Anne’s voice betrayed
what must have been a most deep-rooted fear.

Because Madelyne understood her mother’s
dread, she didn’t feel slighted by Anne’s question, and she moved
to put her arms around her. “Nay, Mama, I did not. You have
impressed upon me the necessity of ne’er speaking of how I came to
be here. I never shall.” She felt the tremor in Anne’s shoulders
and pulled back to press a kiss to her mother’s cheek. “I would
never endanger either of us in that way. I will do anything to keep
you safe, Mama. Anything.” Her serious words became a vow, as if
before God, spoken with conviction and certainty.

Anne seemed to gain control of the fear that
had gripped her and slid her hands down from Madelyne’s shoulders.
Her fingers tightened around her daughter’s arms with her next
words. “Bertilde, and you, and I—and Seton, aye—are the only ones
who know the truth of how we came here. If there are no others who
know, then we must be safe. We
must
be.” She repeated those
last words with such fervor that a chill raced down Madelyne’s
spine.

It must be so, she thought. God must make it
so.

* * *

“De Belgrume bested
you
?” The
incredulity in Henry Plantagenet’s voice caused even the scribe who
sat in the corner of the royal chambers to look up. “
Mal
Verne
?”

“Aye.” Gavin’s mouth firmed in annoyance at
the reminder of his own incompetence even as the king drew his
red-gold eyebrows together. The taste of defeat sat heavily upon
him, as well as the ferocity to right that wrong. “I do not know
how he learned of our planned assault at Mancassel, my lord, but
’twas obvious that he did, for we were set upon in a dense forest
several leagues from there. No one could have known we would be
there at that time. I begin to wonder if I have a spy in my midst,
or whether de Belgrume is simply the most fortunate man alive. If I
had not sent half my men on ahead to Mancassel that morn, we would
easily have held our own, and I might now be presenting him to your
Majesty.

“But, in the end,” Gavin continued, “’tis de
Belgrume who has suffered the greater loss—for I still live, though
he surely believes I am dead.”

“Aye, you have the right of it. His sword
has long itched for you, and yet you continue to deny him that
satisfaction. But still he makes war upon you!” Henry slammed his
jewel-encrusted goblet on a nearby table as he strode past it.
“’Tis the reason I gave
you
the task—he must be contained
and he has continued to engaged you for years. It’s only you who
can put an end to this, Mal Verne. And I fear it is because he’s
never forgiven you for being Nicola’s husband. Nevertheless, bring
him to our custody, or when next you meet him in battle, finish the
bloody deed!” The king turned, seemingly ignoring the fact that
he’d just ordered one of his vassals to murder another one. He
paced back toward Gavin, who stood next to a small table laden with
bread, cheese, and wine.

“You know I should like naught better than
to bring de Belgrume to his knees. He’s taken much from me, and all
in the name of his unholy work.”

“’Tis unfortunate that the Church doesn’t
consider the study of alchemy blasphemous,” Henry grumbled,
snatching up a piece of soft white goat’s cheese. “If it did, then
at the very least we could excommunicate de Belgrume for it…and at
the best, he could be tried for treason and executed.” His brows
furrowed as he brandished the cheese. “Then I would be rid of
him.”

“Even the Pope sees no harm in one seeking
the Holy Grail through alchemy…yet de Belgrume’s obsession has
completely betaken his mind. His obsession has tipped him into
madness.” This was a familiar conversation, one they’d had many
times over in shared frustration.

“When he first came to our court, he didn’t
strike me as one so obsessed,” the king mused.

“Nay, ’tis true. When he first became known
to me, and to Nicola”—Gavin did not pause at his wife’s name, and
’twas a miracle it did not stick in his throat—“I bethought the man
to be only an empty-headed charmer with a well-hidden temper. An
odd man, but a harmless one. Yet, in these last six years, he’s
come to carry an eerie light in his eyes more oft than not.” Gavin
helped himself to a piece of pale yellow cheese. “I believe that
the secrets of the Holy Grail continue to elude him, just as my own
death has…and it’s those failures which have ushered him into
madness.”

“Aye…de Belgrume laid his claim against you
when he tempted Nicola from your side, long before this lunacy
became madness. And then again there is that matter of your
cousin’s betrothed—Geoffrey? Geoffrey of Lancourt, was it?”

“Gregory, my liege. His name was Gregory,
and, aye, he was betrothed to my cousin Judith. Another innocent
lost because of de Belgrume. Aye…’tis as if he and I were fated to
oppose the other in all ways.” Gavin swallowed the mellow cheddar.
“But he’ll not best me again. I believe I’ve found a way to stop
him.” He slipped his hand into the leather pouch that hung at from
his tunic.