Колин Глисон: Sanctuary of Roses

“Nay, ’tis true. When he first became known to me, and to Nicola”—Gavin did not pause at his wife’s name, and ’twas a miracle it did not stick in his throat—“I bethought the man to be only an empty-headed charmer with a well-hidden temper. An odd man, but a harmless one. Yet, in these last six years, he’s come to carry an eerie light in his eyes more oft than not.” Gavin helped himself to a piece of pale yellow cheese. “I believe that the secrets of the Holy Grail continue to elude him, just as my own death has…and it’s those failures which have ushered him into madness.”

“Aye…de Belgrume laid his claim against you when he tempted Nicola from your side, long before this lunacy became madness. And then again there is that matter of your cousin’s betrothed—Geoffrey? Geoffrey of Lancourt, was it?”

“Gregory, my liege. His name was Gregory, and, aye, he was betrothed to my cousin Judith. Another innocent lost because of de Belgrume. Aye…’tis as if he and I were fated to oppose the other in all ways.” Gavin swallowed the mellow cheddar. “But he’ll not best me again. I believe I’ve found a way to stop him.” He slipped his hand into the leather pouch that hung at from his tunic.

Henry barely paused in his great, vigorous strides that brought him past Gavin once again. “And how is that?”

Gavin fingered the rough, unevenness of the beads in his pouch. “I mislike to speak of it yet, my lord. Until…until I’ve put all plans into place.”

“I do not rightly care,” Henry fumed, “as long as that man is brought under control, made to pay his taxes, and swear his fealty to me—I do not care how you do it!”

As always, it came down to the funds in Henry Plantagenet’s mind. Despite the fact that there were other dangers in having a madman as one of his vassals. Gavin said naught but, “Aye, my lord. I shall.” He swallowed the last of the wine in his cup. “By your leave, your majesty, I’ll excuse myself to see to those arrangements.”

“Be off.” Henry waved a hand and returned to his pacing. “Keep us informed of your progress.”

“Aye, my lord. Thank you, your majesty.”

Gavin took his leave of Henry, relieved that the private meeting was over.

It had been no easy task to admit his resounding defeat to the king, but now he would redouble his efforts to stop Fantin de Belgrume. He’d declined to describe his stay at the abbey, and the hasty, manipulative dismissal those nuns had given him and his men—for that, too, stuck in his craw that they should be treated with such indignity.

Fortunately, the night in which he, Thomas, and the others had awakened in a glen with their mounts tethered nearby had been dry and warm—else they may have taken ill yet again. Gavin knew they had been drugged, and, indeed, knew the perpetrator of the deed. The serene Madonna-nun, who had so innocently given him the goblet from which to drink, had stayed at his side, watching him with luminous gray eyes while her potion did its work. Though he’d recognized a certain steeliness under her calm demeanor, he’d never thought to be the recipient of such callousness from his own healer.

Afterward, he may have thought all of it no more than hallucination, had he not found her prayer beads tucked into his pouch. An’ it hadn’t been until some days later ere he remembered the markings on her wrist and realized what that might mean.

He would seek out Judith, who served in the queen’s court, to be certain his suspicions were accurate.

As always when he meant to speak with his cousin and childhood playmate, Gavin’s heart weighed heavier. He relived again those moments when Judith realized what hurt he’d caused her. Those blue eyes had pooled with angry, accusing tears, and her long fingers had clenched into her own arms, drawing prickles of blood. She had bid him remove himself from her sight.

Ere that time they’d spoken but briefly, and though the accusation was no longer in her expression, he could see sorrow and pain still mirrored there. He grieved with her, but he could do naught about putting the anguish there except to have vengeance upon Fantin de Belgrume in her name as well as his own.

When Gavin, Lord of Mal Verne, was announced in the queen’s court, the gossip and giggles halted abruptly and the ladies turned to watch in fascination as the tall, rugged man strode into the chambers. He went directly to Eleanor, kneeling to kiss her ring, and when a slight smile cracked his hard face at something she murmured to him, it was well-noted.

Judith, who sat in a nearby corner embroidering on a wedding gown for one of the ladies, stood as he rose from posturing over the queen’s hand. She walked quickly to him, hoping to impress upon him her pleasure at his visit. Since she was very young, they’d been friends—although Gavin was nearly seven years older than she. He’d fostered under her father’s care, and Gavin had been the elder brother she’d never had. This rift between them had caused her nearly as much grief as Gregory’s death.

“Gavin!” She smiled and stretched out her hands to him, ignoring the interested looks cast from the other ladies.

Mal Verne had a reputation at court that caused a combination of attraction and trepidation among the ladies—they either discussed ways in which to breach that iron-like armor in order to captivate his heart, or ’twas declared that he had no heart to conquer. He turned, and though she had warmth and welcome radiating from her body, she saw that hesitation and apprehension still swam in his eyes.

“Lady Judith,” he said formally, lightly taking her fingertips in his large, scarred hands. “You look well, as always. How do you fare?”

Disappointment swelled through her. He looked haggard and hard, his face set as if in stone, his gray eyes cool and flat as marble. ’Twas as if he allowed any emotion to come to bear, he would crumble.

Judith squeezed his hands, trying as always, to show that she’d forgiven him for that day years before…and, as always, he did not seem to comprehend, remaining remote and cool. “I am well, of course—how could I not be, here with the queen?”

She slipped a hand through the crook of his elbow, drawing him away from the curious ears and eyes of the ladies-in-waiting. “But you…Gavin, have you been ill?” She sat on the cushioned bench in a small alcove and looked up at his towering figure.

After a moment of hesitation, he lowered himself to sit next to her. “Naught but a small slice in my side from de Belgrume’s sword,” he said dismissively. “’Twas tended by a nun in a nearby abbey.”

“You look weary.” She tried again to bridge the span betwixt them.

“I traveled from York, and I have not rested ere I left. ’Tis no more than that.” He formed his lips into a half-hearted smile. “Judith, I came only to ask of you some information—I do not wish to keep you from your duties, or your friends.”

She swallowed and looked away. If only he’d let his guard relax, and put aside his feelings of guilt, he would see that she was pleased at his visit instead of being overset by it. Since Papa’s death, Gavin was her only living relative, her only family…and he’d refused to acknowledge it since Gregory’s death for fear of shaming her. “I would be most pleased to help you if I am able, cousin.”

“You were fostered for a short time with de Belgrume’s daughter, were you not?”

“Aye, Gavin, I know that I have spoken of that year in Kent on occasion. I was only twelve summers, and she no more than ten. She was there for only five moons before he sent for her to return to Tricourten. She did not wish to go.” Judith clenched her fingers as she recalled the deathly whitening of her friend’s face at the message. Though Madelyne spoke little of her father, ’twas obvious she disliked—even feared—him. “’Twas only some moons later that I learned she and her mother had drowned in the river near Tricourten.”