Колин Глисон: Sanctuary of Roses

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.