Колин Глисон: Sanctuary of Roses

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.”

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.”