Sanctuary of Roses (2 page)

Mancassel. Gavin’s fogged mind cleared
enough for him to realize how far they’d traveled from the skirmish
that had left them near death. His lips twisted.

Fantin de Belgrume could not have known
they’d find shelter—he’d have expected that they’d perish in the
wilds after he and his men left them for dead. Mayhaps that had
been his plan: the ambush was not so much meant to destroy Gavin’s
troop in the depths of the forest, but to injure them enough, and
far from any assistance, that they would die while searching for
shelter.

’Twas only by the grace of God, then, that
he and his men found themselves in the sanctuary of some abbey, and
that he lived yet to kill de Belgrume. He smiled at the Madonna and
asked one more question. “What is your name, sister?”

“Madelyne.”

* * *

The beads fit comfortably in her hand, the
irregularity of the rose-scented orbs welcome to the tips of her
fingers. It was the first necklet of prayer beads she’d made after
coming to Lock Rose Abbey, and Madelyne still prayed with it though
she’d made many others in the decade since.

“
Ave Maria, gratia plena
….” The words
flowed from her mouth without hesitation even as her thoughts wound
down a separate path. Most oft when she prayed at matins, her
thoughts centered on spiritual contemplation, rather than of
men—such as those who lay wounded in the infirmary. ’Twas not often
that outsiders—particularly men—came to the abbey.

Those who wished for shelter or sanctuary
were welcomed, although they were kept from the portions of the
abbey where the permanent inhabitants lived. In the guest house and
infirmary, the furnishings were mean and simple. But in the abbey
itself, the women lived in much more comfort. Mother Bertilde
insisted that keeping the wealth of the abbey hidden kept not only
their goods, but also the women, safer from the outside world.

Indeed, in the weeks after she and her
mother had escaped from her father’s keep, they had flinched at
every sound of the bell tolling the announcement of visitors at the
gates. Mother Berthilde, as serene and motherly those ten years
past as she was now, pled them to feel safe in their
sanctuary—promising that few knew of the abbey, and even fewer
could find it should they wish to.

Despite the Mother’s calming words, however,
men sent by Fantin had indeed found the abbey only two fortnights
after they’d left Tricourten. Madelyne still felt the sickness of
fear she’d known when she learned her father’s men were at the
gate…until ‘twas made known to her that Seton de Masin was the
leader of the group.

Meeting secretly with her mother Anne, he
brought tidings of Fantin’s rage at their disappearance—and the
promise that their whereabouts were safe in his keeping. Seton hid
his meeting with Anne from the other men accompanying him. Thus
they would carry the tale that the abbey had been searched with no
result.

Madelyne’s thoughts were interrupted as the
soft swish of a skirt brushed the stone floor next to her.

“Mother Bertilde.” Madelyne rose from the
prie dieu
at which she’d been kneeling and gave a brief
curtsey.

The abbess glanced at the prayer beads with
sharp blue eyes and murmured, “I didn’t mean to disturb you,
daughter, I meant only to see how our guests fare.”

“The Virgin will understand,” Madelyne
replied. “They’re resting comfortably, most of them. Two are ripe
for a fever, but Sister Nellen watches over them and will wake me
if need be.”

Bertilde tucked strong hands inside the
sleeves of her habit. She pursed her mouth, causing the fine, white
hairs that grew along her upper lip to prickle outward. It seemed
as though she needed to choose her words carefully, and, indeed,
when she finally spoke, it was with precision. “They must be made
to leave as soon as possible.”

Madelyne stared at the abbess in surprise.
“Mother—”

“Do you not turn them out until they are
able to ride, but you must see that they leave at that time. I….”
She closed her eyes for a moment, then opened them again. “They
bring naught but disruption and danger to the abbey…I can feel it.
The sooner they are without our walls, the more easily I shall
rest.” She fixed the gaze of her blue eyes on Madelyne. “You must
also see to it that they are kept in the infirmary or at the
stables, and allow them nowhere else within the abbey. If they wish
to pray or to hear Mass, they may also come to the Little Chapel,
but I’ll not have them see any more of us, or of the buildings,
than that.”

Wrapping the prayer beads around her
fingers, Madelyne could do naught but nod. She remembered with
sudden clarity how cold and pained the gray eyes of their leader,
the Lord of Mal Verne, had been when he opened them. A shiver
skittered over her shoulders and she knew that Mother Bertilde was
not wrong. This man brought power and the outside world with him,
and somehow, this portended a change in the lives of those within
the abbey.

She doubted that Mother Bertilde’s
precautions would protect them from whatever should come.

As the abbess left her, Madelyne renewed her
prayers with fervor.

Two

The darkness of fear slithered through her,
constricting the breath in her throat.

He held something long and thin, and it
glinted in the firelight that tossed shadows over her mother’s
terrified face. The words that spewed from his spittle-flecked lips
stabbed at her with their evilness, causing her to draw her knees
closer to her chest as she huddled in the corner.

Screams echoed in the chamber where
firelight danced happily as they endured his madness. Strange
symbols that were carved into the stone floor melded into each
other as the darkness and fear descended again, and again…and
again.

No one could hear their screams, nor their
cries for mercy.

Straps of leather…foul-smelling potions…the
shrieks of a hooded hawk as it was denuded of its feathers…the
crisp acridity of burning flesh…his laugh, smooth and low like the
sound of far-off thunder….

Madelyne dragged her eyes open and pushed
away the dream, reaching blindly for her prayer beads. The darkness
of the nightmare hovered at the edge of her mind, and she
frantically sought the words to keep it at bay.
Ave Maria,
gratia plena
….

She mumbled the words automatically,
inhaling the sweet, faded scent of roses from the beads. Slowly,
the fear subsided and she became aware of the familiar surroundings
of her cell in the abbey.

The barest hint of light speared the
darkness, chasing away her dreams, giving shape to the forms of her
trunk and the three-legged stool. A faint outline of the cross
woven of willow branches hanging above the door, and the shape of
the small tapestry that covered part of the opposite wall,
comforted her.

Dawn was near, and Madelyne knew she
wouldn’t sleep again this night. Still shaken from the fierceness
of her memory, she slipped slowly from her bed. Clad only in a fine
linen chemise, she splashed water on her face from a low-sided
bowl, and chewed on a sprig of mint. Her novitiate’s habit, also
made of well-woven linen, was naught but a simple, dark dress and
an enveloping wimple that covered the two thick braids she
wore.

Since she was awake, she’d see how her
patients were faring, and relieve Sister Nellen from her night
watch early. Tucking the beads into the hidden pocket of her gown,
created solely for that reason, Madelyne left her cell and paced
easily down the hall to the main entrance to the abbey.

Outside, the summer night was drawing to a
close, and the gray of pre-dawn surrendered to the pale yellow of
early morning. A thick scent of roses hung on the air, along with
that of the rain that had passed through last eve.

Despite the fact that the forest crowded the
walls of Lock Rose Abbey, within those walls ’twas as sunny and
open as the King’s Meadow. Gardens grew heartily, and the space was
plentiful so that its inhabitants did not regret their lack of
access to the outside.

She was so happy within those walls that
rarely did Madelyne wonder what it would be like to be out of
them.

In the infirmary, Sister Nellen had just finished
changing the poultice on one of the injured men’s arms. She looked
up as Madelyne slipped through the door, her brown-spotted face
creasing with wrinkles of welcome.

“Good morrow, Sister Madelyne,” she greeted
her in a low, raspy voice. “You are early, but ’tis good, as I am
weary and wish to sleep a bit before the Mass. All is quiet.”

“The fever has not come?” Madelyne looked
toward the pallet of a man who stirred restlessly.

“Nay yet. He bears watching,” Nellen stabbed
an arthritic finger at him, “but there is no sign yet.”

All of the men slept still, and when Nellen
left, Madelyne wandered among the pallets to see to her patients,
curious and fearful all at once. These men were fighting men—built
strong and sturdy, with wounds and gashes, scars and swords. They
lived death everyday, and she shuddered deep within herself at the
thought.

She would never know the world in which they
lived—that world of anger and battles and bloodshed, of greed and
politics—nor did she wish to know it. Her life was promised to God
in devotion for keeping her safe from the wrath of her father.

Madelyne paused beside their leader, the
Lord of Mal Verne, and was drawn to look closely at his face. ’Twas
not a handsome one, in truth, but one filled with hardness, pain,
and determination. Deep lines cut through his cheeks—-not scars,
nay, but lines of weariness and character. His brows were thick and
dark, above deep-set eyes that lay closed in repose.

Madelyne saw the dark brush of stubble over
his cheeks and around the square chin that jutted even in sleep. He
sighed and shifted, his mouth moving in a silent comment, firming
and then relaxing. She nearly touched it, that most beautiful part
of him, but kept her hands tucked into her sleeves.

So odd, that feeling sweeping through her as
she looked down upon him.

Madelyne turned away as the knight called
John mumbled and rolled over, thumping his hand against the wall.
Not one given to fancies or daydreams, Madelyne was grateful for
the interruption of her inspection of Lord Mal Verne. She did not
care for the tingle that started in her fingers when she’d thought
to touch his lips.

After seeing that John had not injured his
hand other than the scrape of knuckles over a stone wall, Madelyne
busied herself chopping herbs for other treatments.

Some time later, when she turned away from
the old wooden table, she saw that Lord Mal Verne had wakened. He
sat partially inclined on the rough straw pallet, watching her with
cool gray eyes.

“Good morrow,” she greeted him calmly,
’though she felt a bit disconcerted that he’d been staring at her.
“Does your side pain you?”

He shook his head briefly. “Nay, no more
than any other hurt I’ve had.” His gaze skimmed over the other men
resting on their pallets, then returned to her. “The others?”

Madelyne nodded. “All are well. Most should
be out of bed within a day.” She added water to a shallow bowl
filled with finely chopped bruisewort leaves and stirred it with a
flat, wooden spoon. She would add dried woad and the paste would be
used in his poultice. “I must look at your wound, and change the
wrappings.”

He grunted what she assumed was an assent,
though it wouldn’t have mattered to her if he hadn’t—the poultice
had to be changed. He rolled to one side and she stuffed a lumpy
pillow behind his back to help him hold the position.

Working deftly, she pulled up the woolen
tunic one of the sisters had found for him, exposing the neat linen
bandage. Beneath, the clean slice through his flesh was an angry
red line with a careful row of stitches crossing over it. Blood
oozed slowly from the upper edge, but other than that, the wound
had congealed and was not puffed with bad humors. Pressing it
gently, she asked, “Does it pain you?”

“Nay.”

Madelyne clicked her tongue absently as she
pressed the cut to be certain more blood did not come forth. Then,
with a flat, wooden utensil, she spread the warm, sticky mass of
herbs over the wound.

Some of the pungent paste slid down his
side, over bronzed skin decorated with other, healed, wounds, into
the thick, dark hair that grew over his abdomen. She tried to catch
it with the spoon, but it matted into the coarse hair and clung
there. With a frown, Madelyne finished covering the wound with the
plaster, then lightly pressed a clean cloth over it.

“Do you not move,” she told him, turning to
get a damp rag. She felt him watch her, silently and steadily, as
she brought back the dripping cloth, and was again conscious of the
steeliness of his unwavering gray eyes.

“Ere I first saw you, I believed I had died
and thought you to be the Madonna,” he spoke, breaking the
silence.

Madelyne glanced at him, a wry smile
hovering at the corners of her lips. “And now, my lord?” She looked
down, using the cloth to wipe away at the paste that had gathered
in the hair on his stomach. His skin was warm and the ridges of
muscle in his middle were smooth and hard under the cloth. When her
hand brushed over bare skin, that tingle that had started in her
fingertips returned. Her mouth went dry. The texture of another’s
flesh had never felt so warm, so soft and hard all at once…’twas
foreign and stirring and she felt odd.

“Now? Now I wonder why one as fair as you
would choose the cloistered life.”

She jerked her attention from the sensation
of touching his skin, raising her gaze to be caught and held by
his. Pulling the cloth from his skin, she looked away and her
scattered thoughts returned to order. “The freedom that we enjoy is
not to be had anywhere but in an abbey.”