Sanctuary of Roses (8 page)

Rufus smiled. “All the better. Her devotion
should not be wasted upon the needs of those sisters there—Lord
Fantin, you must bring her here and she will serve God thusly for
your purposes.”

A warmth suffused Fantin as the truth of
Rufus’s words broke over him. “Aye, oh, father, you have the right
of it! Madelyne, sprung from my own loins and that of her mother,
is indeed the purest creation on this earth. ’Tis only fit that she
act as the conduit betwixt myself and my God…for through her, He
will speak and show me the salvation that I shall attain with the
Stone!”

He smiled with a sudden spark of good humor.
“’Twill be the greatest pleasure to welcome my daughter back to her
home after so many years.”

Six

“Look you there, Lady Madelyne.” Lord Mal
Verne pointed in a southerly direction as they reached the crest of
a hill. “’Tis Mal Verne.”

Madelyne turned obediently, and found
herself looking across a small valley to another, larger hill, on
which a rambling stone wall rimmed its height. Gold and black flags
bearing the standard of Mal Verne fluttered over merlons that
jutted like great teeth along the top of the wall. From her view,
she could see the small figures of men-at-arms walking around the
enclosure, and to the farthest south corner, she saw the heavy iron
portcullis that blocked entrance to the bailey. The small buildings
of the town clustered on a plateau below the wall, and down in the
valley were healthy green fields ready to be harvested.

Lord Mal Verne kicked Rule, the warhorse,
and, as if sensing he was near home, the stallion charged off the
hill. Madelyne stifled a shriek as she was jounced abruptly to one
side, nearly losing her grip on his mane before catching her
balance, and she closed her eyes as they headed straight down the
hill. She would have begun praying aloud had Mal Verne not given a
short bark of laughter and tightened his arms on either side of
her.

“Do you not fear, my lady. I have not
brought you this far to have you fall beneath Rule’s hooves!”

Madelyne pressed her lips together and sat
even straighter in her seat. She would not show her fear…and she
would not allow herself to fall! Those words became a chant in her
mind as they careened down the hill, the other men in their party
so close on their heels that she feared they’d be overturned, if
not trampled, by their zealous companions.

It was not until Mal Verne shouted a
greeting that rang in her ear that Madelyne’s eyes flew open and
she found that they had attained a more horizontal position. They’d
covered the space between the two mountainous hills in such a short
time that she was thankful anew that she hadn’t watched as they
hurtled past trees and down the slope.

“
À
Mal Verne!” she heard the men on
the stone wall cry in response to their lord’s hail. The party of
knights was close enough to the castle wall that she could see
their gold and black tunics, emblazoned with the now-familiar
standard, and the sleeves of their chain hauberks glinting in the
sun.

Mal Verne slowed the party to a trot as they
reached the edge of the village, and Madelyne watched with interest
as the peasants and tradespeople came to crowd the sides of the
thoroughfare, waving at their lord. They were not fearful at all,
even of the great destriers that pranced impatiently down the
street—although Madelyne noted that the mothers took care that
their children did not get too close to the horses.

Vague memories of riding through the town at
Tricourten stirred in her mind, and the images were of naught but
empty streets and shuttered homes. ’Twas clear that Lord Mal Verne
was, if not well-liked, at the least not feared by the villeins who
farmed his rich lands.

She felt movements behind her, him brushing
against her back and causing her to sit further forward, as he
nodded and gestured to the peasants. Though he did not stop to
speak with any of them at length, he did call to several by name.
She felt the weight of curious stares on her as they jounced along,
and realized how odd it must seem for a nun to be sharing the
saddle with their lord.

When they reached the portcullis, it lifted
quickly and noiselessly—bespeaking of the care and maintenance that
obviously went into its upkeep. Although Madelyne knew little of
the ways of war, she was well-educated in the management of a
household, for all of the sisters shared in the tasks at Lock Rose
Abbey. She knew the value of a gate that raised and lowered without
hesitation.

Then, before she had time to muse further,
the party entered the bailey and rode to the massive stone keep
that sat on the far end of the huge, enclosed yard. Marshals and
men-at-arms swarmed the travelers and horses, accepting reins as
the knights dismounted.

Madelyne waited as Mal Verne dismounted
gracefully from behind her, then stepped around to the side of the
saddle over which her legs were positioned. Instead of assisting
her to dismount immediately, he gathered up Rule’s reins and turned
to speak with a stocky, black-haired man who looked to be perhaps a
decade older than he.

“Robert! By the looks of it, you’re fare
better than the last I saw you, after that incident with the
shield. Glad to see you aren’t so black and blue. This woman is
Lady Madelyne de Belgrume,” he announced. “She is to be treated as
a guest, but not allowed without the keep unescorted.” Pointing a
finger at a tall, blond man with a crooked nose, he commanded,
“Jube, you shall be responsible for the lady’s well-being in my
absence.”

Madelyne watched silently as her
accommodations were discussed as if she weren’t present. So this is
how it would be in a man’s world.

Mal Verne stood near enough to her that she
could reach forward and touch the darkness of his shaggy hair. The
sleeves of his mail hauberk shifted, jangling quietly as he
gestured with his arm. He had not shaven for some time, and dark
stubble grew over his cheeks and chin, adding sharpness to the
planes of his face.

He turned to her without warning, his
stone-gray eyes locking onto her gaze for a brief moment, causing
her breath to heavy. Madelyne quickly looked away, down, and found
her attention focused on his booted feet. Then all at once, strong
hands spanned her waist, and she was lifted up and down from the
saddle with a smoothness that indicated the ease with which he
handled her weight.

Upon the ground, Madelyne staggered slightly
before she gained her footing, swaying against his broad chest for
the briefest of moments before she stepped back. He glanced at her
as she steadied herself, and she managed a weak smile. Patricka,
who, likewise had been assisted down from her mount, came to stand
by her side, looking as lost and uncertain as Madelyne herself
felt.

Mal Verne turned his attention to the stocky
man named Robert and, as they began to speak in low tones, they
started toward the large oaken door that led to the keep.

Madelyne and Patricka hesitated, but when
the man called Jube gestured for them to follow, they linked arms
and walked toward the massive entrance. Jube and a cluster of other
men-at-arms traced their footsteps, while others melted away, most
likely to return to their duties.

Inside the keep, Madelyne found herself
dwarfed by the high-ceilinged Great Hall and the lines of crude,
log-hewn tables that filled it. For a brief moment, a shiver of
remembrance flitted through her mind, bringing with it the image of
the smoke- and laughter-filled hall at Tricourten on the night she
and her mother had escaped. Casting a sidewise glance at the dais
where the lord and his guests would sup, Madelyne almost expected
to see her father sitting there with his cronies as he played the
lute and sang with the voice of an angel. Her apprehension settled
when she saw that the table was empty, and she silently berated
herself for her nervousness.

As long as she was in the king’s care,
Fantin could not hurt her. Thus Madelyne would do whatever she must
in order to remain under the king’s protection.

Still ignored by Mal Verne and his men, she
took the opportunity to study the tapestries that hung on the
walls, stretching to such a height that she had to strain her neck
in order to see the top of the images, and then to look around at
the people scurrying about their business. The rushes beneath her
feet rustled, and although she saw one mouse dashing away when his
slumber was disturbed, she noted that the keep seemed as well-kept
as the bailey and stone wall.

Then, suddenly, she was aware that all were
staring at her. She looked at Mal Verne, whose voice speaking her
name had caused her to look up, and saw that he was giving her an
impatient look.

“My lady, do you not wish for a bath and a
change of clothing before supper?”

“Oh, aye,” she gave him a grateful smile,
and was rewarded as his stone-face seemed to falter for a
moment.

Then, as if that flinch had not occurred,
Mal Verne gestured with a graceful hand to very short, very round
woman standing to one side. She had brilliant red hair pulled into
a tight braid, with a wide yellow-white streak from her left temple
along the length of the braid, which was wound into a bun. “Then
you and your maid may follow Peg abovestairs.”

Peg was at least two score years and had a
motherly attitude that cloaked her like a comfortable cape. She
gave a brief curtsey and waved the women behind her.

At the top of the stone steps was a balcony
over which Madelyne could look down and see into the hall, and she
paused for a short moment to do so. Then, gathering the skirt of
her habit, she hurried to catch up with Peg and Tricky.

“My lady, this shall be your chamber whilst
you are here.” Peg threw open a door that led to a small but
well-appointed room. “My lord sent a messenger on to announce your
presence, an’ we all hastened to make ready for you, just as we did
the time his lordship’s cousin came to visit when the leaves were
ust turning gold and brown…or, alack, was it my lord’s mother’s
sister that time?…now I shall have to ask Robena on that, for I
fear my memory gets a bit slow now and again.” Her rambling
commentary was as welcome as the small fire that warmed the room,
chill even in the midst of summer, and the large wooden tub that
sat next to the hearth.

Madelyne stepped into the room just in time
to avoid being sloshed by a pail of steaming water carried by a
serf. She stood back and watched as a line of servants brought more
and more pails, filling the tub, and leaving several more pails
filled with hot and cold water to adjust the temperature.

Peg bustled over to the tub and, opening a
small jar, poured dried flowers and herbs into the water. Then, she
stood expectantly, her pudgy hands folded, and with a start,
Madelyne realized she was waiting to assist her in disrobing. “Oh,
nay, I do not—”

“We shall help you to bathe, my lady,”
Patricka said firmly, nodding at Peg. ’Twas as though some private
message had passed between them, and before Madelyne could allow
her modesty to rule, they advanced upon her and began to assist her
out of her habit.

“Lord Mal Verne sent some of Lady Mal
Verne’s clothing for you to wear,” Peg explained as Madelyne
stepped into the tub. “Packed as ’twere in those oaken trunks, I
shook out the wrinkles when I heard that you’d be in need of them.
’Twill be quite a relief from this plain gown and veil of yours, my
lady, if you don’t mind my saying so.”

Madelyne did not know whether ’twas the
sudden heat of the water or the notion that Mal Verne was married
that caused her to gasp, but she ignored the sudden, inexplicable
sinking of her heart and lowered herself into the rose-scented
tub.

She looked over at Peg, who was chatting on
as she showed Tricky several gowns of brilliant, jewel colors. At
the least, she thought wryly, Mal Verne provided well for his wife.
Even from her perch in the tub, she could tell the quality of the
cloth and the intricacy of the embroidery.

She wondered, suddenly, if Lady Mal Verne,
at least, was able to soften the harshness in his face and
demeanor.

“Methinks this blue for the undertunic,”
Tricky was saying as she eyed Madelyne and then the cloth, and back
again.

“You are well thought,” nodded Peg, her
jowls jiggling. “With her hair of such dark color, and her eyes
like a pale moon—aye, she makes me think of mine own sister, whose
hair was so long and thick as mine is. And my own auntie, well,
’twas her pride and joy this hair of our family, and when she had
the ague, she must had it cut and how she bewailed that fate for
days!”

The two women huddled together for a moment,
throwing occasional glances over their shoulders at Madelyne.
Tricky’s arms gesticulated wildly, punctuating her bobbing head,
and Peg nodded and murmured, nodded and tsked, and expounded on her
reactions with rambling sentences of family anecdotes.

Madelyne, a bit discomfited with what she
deemed as a conspiracy against her, sank into the tub and attempted
to block out the two women and their chatter. A faint, wry smile
did curve her face as she succumbed to the realization that Tricky
had found her mentor, and that she, Madelyne, would likely be the
pawn in her learning game.

The scent of roses filled her nose, for the
first time ever not related to the duties of making rose beads.
And, as if she was smelling it for the first time, Madelyne inhaled
and closed her eyes, enjoying the sweetness of the floral scent.
The steaming water was heavenly, such that she paused for a
moment—albeit a brief one—to thank God for her safe arrival, and to
contemplate whether ’twas a sin that she should enjoy such an
earthly pleasure. Baths, although available at the abbey, were only
occasional and never this warm and sweet. Most often they were a
dip in the nearby stream, or a few hands of lukewarm water.