Колин Глисон - Sanctuary of Roses

The sound of voices and heavy footsteps down the stairs caused Madelyne’s attention to sharpen. “Tricky…they come! Can you right yourself?”

Gasping, Tricky rolled herself back to where she’d been and struggled to right her stool. The door flung open again, and Fantin and Tavis strode in, arguing.

Their loud voices, angry and shrill, sent greater shivers up and down Madelyne’s spine. Where was Seton? Was there aught he could do?

“There is no sign that Mal Verne has entered the keep—he is no where to be found.” Tavis spoke in an urgent tone. “You must concentrate on your work, Master Fantin…your time is so close!”

He flickered a look in Madelyne’s direction, then, as his gaze swept back, it was distracted by the sight of Tricky on the floor, still attached to her stool. He trotted over, standing above her with his hands on his hips. “And where are we going, my little coquette? Surely you do not wish to miss our little demonstration anight?”

Roughly, he yanked her upright and reached to fondle her breasts. “Ah, such sweet rewards await me!” With a lascivious smile, he turned back to Fantin.

“Master…no one can enter this keep now without our knowledge. Mal Verne’s one man gained entrance, but if there are others, they will be stopped by the extra guards we have posted. Mal Verne must still be jailed, awaiting trial for attempted murder of the queen.”

“Aye,” his master chuckled. “Even our king is not so foolish as to allow him loose in the wake of his little gift to that whore.” Fantin appeared to be placated, and he swept over to Madelyne, fluttering his robe dramatically. He reached to touch her face, smoothing his cool hand lovingly along her cheek.

“Madelyne, dear daughter, feel you ill, or do you feel the strength of your cleanliness returning to you? The potions we have given you are only for your own health. We must eradicate the seed of that bastard Mal Verne if you are to attain your innocence once again.”

Holding her breath, Madelyne turned her face away, afraid that even the little she knew would be betrayed on her face. God willing, Seton had found a way to bring Gavin’s men into the keep…

Suddenly, the door to the laboratory burst open, and even through her haze, Madelyne recognized Seton de Masin as he pitched into the room, nearly falling to his knees. Blood smeared his face, and where he held his left arm with his right, more redness colored his fingers and clothing. He was followed by the priest, the white-faced, man with dark circles beneath his eyes. The latter prodded Seton with a sword to the back.

“Lord Fantin, you have a traitor in your midst,” announced the priest as he stood proudly at the base of the stairs. Madelyne’s head went weightless. Nay!

“What is this?” Fantin turned, his words soft, but the touch of his hand on Madelyne’s skin turned heavy and still.

“This man has been feeding your daughter, and whispering with her whilst you work to rid her of the evil within her. He is destroying your ever chance of cleansing her!”

“De Masin, what is the meaning of this? Is this true?” Fantin whirled from Madelyne’s side and faced his man, hands on his hips.

“Lord Fantin, ’tis not his only trespass,” Rufus continued. “He strode from the keep and spoke with a man near the oak tree—in secret.”

Madelyne dragged in a shaking breath, her body overcome with tremors. Oh nay…!

Fantin left her side as if propelled, leaving a force of shifting air in his wake, and a deep fear chilling her bones. “What are you about?” her father roared, snatching a gleaming sword from one of the tables, whirling to face his man.

“Your work will never come to pass,” Seton told him, standing tall, though pain marked his face. “You seek to use Madelyne as the conduit for your work with God, but she will never fulfill that role.”

“You know naught of what you speak,” shrieked Fantin, his eyes wild and desperate. He swiped out with the wide blade. In his fury, he swung too wide, and Seton easily leapt out of its path…but the priest was not so fortunate.

Before Madelyne’s eyes, her father’s blade sliced through the neck of the little priest, leaving a deep, thick red line across his throat. He gurgled and slumped to the floor as Fantin stared in disbelief.

Then, as if some great power seized him, Fantin clenched his fists, flinging his arms wide and raising his face to the wooden ceiling above, and shrieked before launching himself at Seton. “You have killed him! My priest!”

“’Tis no matter, Fantin. Your work will come to naught,” Seton told him, jumping gracefully from his path. He pivoted toward Madelyne, breathing heavily against his pain. “Madelyne cannot fulfill the role you have made her as your daughter. She is not of your seed.”

Madelyne froze as Fantin screamed again. “ You lie ! She is my flesh, my only flesh and she was created with the woman God has chosen for me! She is my destiny!”

“Nay, you have been fooled all these years,” Seton continued, taunting him, dancing around the table as his eyes flashed with purpose. “Madelyne is my daughter.”

The time had long come and since passed for Seton de Masin to open the small, side gate as he’d avowed he would.

Gavin pushed all emotion from his mind. He focused only on that gateway lit by flickering torches—watching the weathered with age, gray wood that kept him from his beloved—nay, he would not think on that.

Look only on the door. Wait for it to open. Count the knots, study the texture and grain of the wood.

It did not open.

Stare in the dim light at the splinters that form each plank.

It did not open.

His nerves screamed and yet he looked only there. He didn’t hear the shuffling of his men. He didn’t see them watching him.

He did not look at the night sky, studded with stars and a low moon. He knew only stillness, black stillness within—rage simmering beneath, struggling to erupt.

He did not allow it. He stared, grasping the hilt of his sword and still he waited.

And still the gate remained closed.

“Nay!” Fantin shrieked, freezing with his sword in the air. “Lying whoreson!”

Madelyne saw her own shock reflected in his face. Her body shook with chills and disbelief, yet something surged warm within her. She carried no madness in her veins. Her love to serve God came wholesome and from her heart…not from the twisted, skewed need of Fantin de Belgrume.

Seton continued to move, holding his arm, taunting Fantin. “All of these years, I have known she is of my blood and she has lived safely out of your reach. I have made certain it would be so. Why do you think I have stayed in your service for all these years?”

“Nay! ’Tis not true!” Fantin’s voice reached a shrill pitch, then cracked into dryness. “Nay! Lady Anne would never have lain with one such as you…and you tell me tales with no truth, Seton de Masin! You will not sway me from my purpose, for I am chosen !”

Seton yanked up the sleeve of his tunic, baring his wrist, still dancing, moving ever closer to Madelyne. “See you here, Fantin—’tis all the proof you need. She and I have the self-same wrist-markings that my mother and her father have had before us. She is of my flesh. Madelyne is not your daughter, and she will not remain here under your care to live in the darkness of your world. I shall see to that.”

With these words, Seton launched himself over the table, knocking bowls and dishes askew as he thumped to the floor next to Madelyne, banging into Tricky’s stool and upsetting her onto the floor.

Seton reached for a long wooden broom and whipped it around, missing Fantin by only a whistle of air. He shifted his grip, settling the pole like a lance at his side, when something flew across the room and, with a dull thud, Seton dropped to the floor next to Tricky.