Sanctuary of Roses (6 page)

When she had collected those few items she
intended to take with her, Madelyne gave one last sweep of the
small room with her gaze. Would she ever see this cell again, kneel
at the worn
prie dieu
, sleep on the feather-stuffed bed?

Squaring her shoulders, she pulled the bag
made of loose cloth that held her few personal belongings. She
adjusted her veil and smoothed her skirt, uncertain how she
looked—for there was no mirror in her cell—and left the room for
the last time.

Outside, in the bailey, the rest of the sisters had
gathered to bid her farewell. Lord Mal Verne and his men-at-arms
stood a discreet distance away, and ’though he watched her
steadily, he did not speak as she and Patricka embraced their
friends.

Only Anne did not appear, and for this,
Madelyne was grateful. She had said a brief farewell to her mother
after speaking with Bertilde, and that leave-taking had been
fraught with tears and sobs. They could not risk the chance that
Anne would be seen or recognized by the men.

Thus, the last arms to hold her, and the
last face to be kissed, was that of Mother Bertilde. She pulled
Madelyne tightly to her and whispered, “God be with you, my child.
Our prayers follow you wherever you go. May you have the strength
and peace to accept that which is your future.”

Madelyne’s face was wet with tears when at
last she began to walk across the bailey to join Mal Verne and his
men. Tricky followed, leaving a sea of red-eyed women behind.

She approached Mal Verne, who continued to
watch with stony eyes, and whose gaze flickered to Patricka as they
walked closer. “I am ready to accompany you now, my lord. This is
Patricka, my maid, who will accompany me.”

A twinge of satisfaction settled over her
when she saw the disconcertion in his eyes. “Your maid? Nuns do not
have maids.”

“Patricka is my maid, and she does accompany
me whither I go. I trust that you will be able to accommodate one
extra female.”

His mouth tightened ever so slightly—just
enough for her to see that she had irked him with her cool
response—and he turned abruptly, calling to one of his men. “Clem,
the maid will ride with you.” He started toward the small herd of
mounts gathered near the stable.

Madelyne took that as a silent command to
follow him, and she gathered up the hem of her gown to do so. Some
of the men were mounted, and others stood in a small cluster,
holding the reins of whuffling, stamping destriers.

At the sight of the huge warhorses,
Madelyne’s bravery deserted her.

The mounts stood many hands taller than she,
with large heads and round eyes and huge, snorting noses. The
hooves that fidgeted in the dirt or stamped in impatience were
bigger than her face, and looked powerful enough to flatten a heavy
oaken door with one thrust. Madelyne froze, unable to make herself
move closer to the fierce creatures.

Mal Verne turned when he reached one of the
larger, more spirited stallions, and frowned when he saw her
standing aback. “Come, my lady,” he bid her impatiently as he
struggled to calm the vigorous horse. “You ride with me.”

Madelyne’s throat dried, and she didn’t know
if ’twas more from fear of getting close enough to the ferocious
creature to sit upon it, or that she would be in such proximity to
Mal Verne. It took every ounce of will to force to take a step
forward, and then another, before the destrier reared slightly. His
hooves slammed into the ground with a hollow sound, and Madelyne
jerked backward, hand clutching at her throat.

“What ails you, lady?” Annoyance strained
Mal Verne’s voice as he gave off the reins to one of his companions
and started toward her.

“I…do not ride, my lord,” she managed to say
steadily as he approached her.

“I did not think that you did,” he said
dismissively, continuing to look at her as if she were daft.

Madelyne felt the necessity to explain
further. “I…do not like horses,” she managed to say just before he
wrapped one powerful arm around her waist, lifting her easily into
the air. A faint shriek emitted from her mouth, surprising her
before she pulled herself under control. “There is no need—”

Her words were stopped as he set her
none-too-gently on the back of the dancing stallion. Before she
could gather her bearings, she felt him leap into the saddle behind
her. Suddenly, a long, firm thigh slid along her legs, which rested
over one side of the saddle, and two hard arms enclosed her on
either side. Madelyne fought to control a whimper of nervousness as
the horse responded to the command of Mal Verne’s legs, nearly
leaping forward in its impatience to be off.

As the destrier stepped eagerly into a fast
trot, Madelyne was jostled backward by the momentum, back against
the hard wall of man. Her breath caught in her throat as she became
aware that she was completely enclosed by Gavin of Mal Verne,
completely in his arms and completely in his power…and they rode
from the gates of Lock Rose Abbey.

Five

The abbey was hours behind them and the sun
dropping in the west before Gavin spoke directly to Madelyne. She
seemed to have overcome, or at least concealed, her mislike and
fear of riding.

When he leaned forward to speak into her
ear, she straightened as if startled. “Tell me, Lady Madelyne, how
did you come to the abbey, and leave your father to believe you and
your mother drowned?”

She was quiet for a moment, in a silence he
had come to expect from her—as if she took the time to carefully
measure her words in response to certain questions. Her hands,
stained from the boiled rose petals, clutched the pommel in front
of her, and the corner of her veil flapped in his face as they
jounced along at a brisk trot.

“I do not know how that particular story
came about—I was only ten summers, and there was much my mother did
not tell me. ’Tis likely the man-at-arms who helped us to escape
created the tale of our drowning.”

“Escape?”

“Aye, ’twas an escape from my father.” He
felt her move against him as she drew in a deep breath. “My father
would fly into obscene rages when he prayed, and when he did, he
oft beat and whipped my mother. One can understand why she would
seek to escape him and that life…and of course, she would not leave
me behind.”

Gavin fought back a resurgence of loathing
for Fantin de Belgrume as he raked a hand through his shaggy,
overlong hair. Any man who would hit a woman was a coward, though
verily there were many who did. There was no law against a man
beating his wife—she was his property and his to do with as he
wished—but Gavin could not stomach the thought of raising a hand to
a weaker being.

Regardless, de Belgrume must have struck out
at his wife once too often. Yet, ’twas not a common thing, women
leaving their husbands—for there were few places for a gentlelady
to go. And if a woman did leave her husband, she could be
rightfully returned to him.

And, Gavin reminded himself ruefully, what
was seen through the eyes of a ten-year-old girl could be
misconstrued and misunderstood. If there was a man-at-arms who
dared to assist in their escape, likely that man had a deeper, more
intimate involvement with the lady of Tricourten than he
should.

Gavin’s mouth twisted and his chin jutted
forward in remembrance of how it felt to be a husband who had been
betrayed. ’Twas not any mean feat to comprehend how a man could be
driven to such rage as to hit his wife.

But how did they come to the abbey, and what
of the mother?

He leaned forward again in order to speak
over the sound of thumping hooves and the ebullient conversations
of his men. Her veil slapped into his face again, and he had the
urge to yank it from her head so that his vision would not be
obscured…and so that he could see the color of her hair.

Gavin sat back, upright, without asking his
question. The color of her
hair
? From where had that thought
come?

Then, as if that wayward notion suddenly
opened a gate of awareness, he became conscious that her round
bottom was nestled between the juncture of his legs…and that her
breasts rose and fell with the rhythm of her breathing just above
where his arms enclosed her slim body…and that if he were to move
his leg, it would brush against her thighs.

Jesù
, the woman was a nun! He
scowled, annoyed with his wandering thoughts, and spoke to Lady
Madelyne—Sister Madelyne, he’d best remember—this time without
leaning forward. “And your mother? What befell her?”

“Mama died from a fever two autumns after we
arrived at the abbey.” He felt the slightest shift in her, a
tensing, almost imperceptible.

“Where do we travel?” Madelyne’s question,
her first words to him that were unprompted, was so unexpected that
he answered without thinking about why she changed the subject.

“We are a day’s journey from my holdings at
Mal Verne. Anight we shall sleep at a monastery near York.” Though
he had used the king’s name to impress upon Madelyne the importance
of her compliance, Gavin did not plan to make haste to Henry’s
side. In fact, the king had planned to leave Westminster in the
week since Gavin himself took his leave. Knowing that the royal
party traveled quickly and often unexpectedly, Gavin knew ’twas
more efficient to send word to Henry and await his instructions,
rather than attempt to track him down. As well, he’d not been to
Mal Verne for nearly five moons, and ’twas nigh time he stayed
there for a fortnight or more to see how his steward fared.

“Will we arrive anon? I fear my maid is
becoming weary.” Madelyne pointed with a black-stained hand to the
pair on the destrier that rode just in front of them.

Gavin looked and saw that the young woman
called Patricka had slumped to one side in Clem’s arms, and that he
looked as uncomfortable as she did. Urging Rule forward with his
knees, he approached them and called to his man. “Do you wish to
put her with someone else for a spell?” He looked closer at the
young woman, whose face was upturned and her neck propped on Clem’s
meaty arm.

Patricka’s round, cheery face was slackened
in sleep, and her apple cheeks jounced slightly with each pace of
the stallion. Her mouth, pursed into a berry-like swell of pink,
parted just enough for a low snore to come forth, and her
tip-tilted nose flared with each audible breath.

“Nay, my lord. There is no need to awaken
the maid.” Clem responded with a note of indignance, as if his
vanity had been bruised by Gavin’s suggestion that he could not
manage the young woman.

“As you wish.” Gavin raised an eyebrow, but
forbore to comment further. “The monastery is no more than a half
league ahead, and we will soon find our beds.”

* * *

Madelyne forced her stiff legs to move. She
could not recall ever being in such pain as she was, having spent
much of the day in a saddle. Her back hurt from the effort of
remaining sword-straight so that she would not brush up against
Lord Mal Verne, and her arms ached from clutching the pommel.

She was grateful, however, that he’d chosen
a monastery for their place to rest, as she was in deep need of a
chapel, and some moments of peace.

’Twas after their meal—an unexciting affair,
much plainer than that which had been served at Lock Rose Abbey—and
after seeing that Tricky had slumped off to sleep in the women’s
quarters, that Madelyne had slipped from the room to find the
chapel. One of the elder monks had pointed it out to her earlier,
and now she crept like a wraith to its sanctuary.

Candles burned, filling the air with the
smell of tallow and smoke, casting a warm yellow glow over the
small room. Sinking to her knees on the hard stone floor—preferable
than the wooden kneelers for keeping herself awake at this late
time—Madelyne sought to find the words of prayer.

But, for the first time in her life, she
could not find them.

Instead, she knelt, there in the presence of
God, cloaked in her certainty that He heard and knew her random
thoughts…and became lost in a whirlwind of images and
reflections.

Had it only been this morn that she’d risen,
as if it were any other day? Here, now, she found herself in the
company of a strange man—one who stirred her with his strength and
awed her with his control and authority—and who escorted her to the
presence of the king.

She wondered how Anne fared, and if she
worried her daughter would betray her presence. A tear stung her
eye as she remembered the farewells they’d shared. Anne had wanted
to go with her, but Madelyne, knowing how fragile her parent was,
and that she was still haunted by the nightmares of her husband’s
abuse, had insisted that she remain at the abbey. Yet Madelyne
would not have prevailed if Mother Bertilde hadn’t intervened and
insisted that Anne remain. Madelyne was relieved, for she knew her
mother’s constitution was not the heartiest…and she did not wish to
worry about her mother’s condition whilst she managed whatever it
was that awaited her at the king’s court.

What did it mean that she was called to the
side of the king? Verily, he could not mean to send her back to her
father. A sudden fear squeezed her middle. Why would he not? What
other reason would there be that he ordered her to attend him?
Nausea roiled in her stomach.

Dear God, I prithee, do You not send me
back to my father. My Father in Heaven…Blessed Virgin…have mercy on
me!
Suddenly, the words came with fervor, and Madelyne opened
her eyes to look up at the wooden crucifix and prayed.

Her thoughts shifted then again. And this
man…this man who took her, who had somehow identified her….
Heavenly Father, protect me from him.
I will make my promise to
You, speak my final vows with no further delay if You see fit to
return me to the Abbey.