Колин Глисон - Sanctuary of Roses

“Drowned. Aye, that was the story I recall hearing as well.” Something in Gavin’s eyes gave Judith pause, and she looked at him more closely.

“What is it?”

“Did you not speak to me of an odd marking on her arm? I recall your musings once that the little girl had some unusual spots near her wrist.”

Judith nodded. “Aye. Three moles near her wrist, just here.” She demonstrated on her own flesh. “When she first came to Kent Castle, one of the maidservants made mention of it and spread the talk that mayhaps she was a witch, with such markings. But that notion was soon dispelled, for Madelyne was such a kind and sweet girl that none could think ill of her.”

It seemed that a glint of grim humor flashed over Gavin’s face at that, but ’twas gone so quickly that Judith was sure she had imagined it. He spoke again. “And how exactly were those markings placed?”

She showed him: one mole atop two that were aligned, creating the shape of a small, tight triangle. There was such satisfaction in his face that she suddenly realized what he was about. “You do not mean that she lives?”

His brows drew together in a sudden show of ferocity such that Judith was taken aback. “Aye, the wench does live. And it shall be through her that I’ll at last get to Fantin.”

“You’d not hurt her!” Judith forgot herself and the fragility of the tenuous bond between them and clutched at his powerful arm. Insult flashed over his face at her words, and she berated herself for causing it. But she’d not see another woman, especially Madelyne de Belgrume (if ’twas truly her of whom he spoke) hurt.

“Nay, Judith, I’d not hurt her.” His voice was gruff as he closed his fingers over her hand to remove it from his arm. “But she will be a means to bring Fantin to heel.”

The rough stones ground into his aching knees, but Fantin de Belgrume delighted in the discomfort. He would bear any such penance or pain whilst he prayed—for any distress he suffered now would be well repaid when his work was completed. Indeed, Fantin preferred to pray among the evidence of this work, there on the bare floor, within the sight and smell and feel of it, rather than in the chapel.

He twined his fingers together in supplication, finishing the hour of prayer that was as much a part of his work in the laboratory as the formulas and tonics and metallic brews were. Fantin began and ended every session in his laboratory in concert with God, knowing that without His guidance, he would never find the formula he sought…which had been promised him.

’Twas fitting, that he should be the one to receive the secret once given to the Magdalen—the fascinating, sinful woman who appeared as three different ladies in the Gospels: Mary of Magdala, Mary, the sister of Lazarus, and the woman who anointed Christ’s feet with her tears and wiped them dry with her hair.

She was a woman who atoned for her sins—a wealthy woman, just as Fantin himself was wealthy. A wealthy woman who sinned through sexual pleasure…just as Fantin did. The woman from whom Christ had expelled seven demons.

Legend had it that this woman’s bones—the bones of the Whore Saint, as Fantin preferred to think of her—were interred near Vézelay, in France. Coincidentally, it was the village near where his mother hailed, and was thus cause for her devotion to the Magdalen. Legend foretold that the blood of the woman saint ran in Fantin’s own veins—and he knew that was the reason God had chosen him.

Pulling to his feet, relishing the pain that shot down his left leg and knowing that soon it would never bother him again, Fantin drew in a deep breath of pleasure and joy. The stale, earthy smell of the below-stairs chamber tinged his nostrils, and he inhaled deeply, drawing its energy into his being.

’Twas not a pleasant smell, that of brewing leaves, burning flesh and molten metal, he allowed—in fact, it was enough to curdle one’s belly—but God had put it on His earth apurpose. Every aspect of His creation, every being, every creature served a role in God’s world…and Fantin himself served the greatest of these.

He smiled, thinking on that as he returned to the table where the last task he’d been involved in—crushing the smooth, silky bark of a birch tree with flakes of silver and bronze metals—remained half-completed.

For years, he’d sought the secret of the Grail: perfect combination of chemistry that would create the substance whose mere touch would give him Immortality. It would change any metals to gold.

It would create for Fantin a life of power under which to serve God.

He sought and studied and prayed to determine the exact amounts of each element that would be required to complete the ancient process. Metals, wood, earth, water…fire…all or some of these elements would someday cohese, forming that miracle which Fantin sought—that miracle which had been promised him by his bloodline: the miracle of the Holy Grail and what some called the Philosopher’s Stone.

Next to the bowl with curling birch bark and metal flakes, the corpse of an adder oozed blood into another bowl—a metal one, to hold the rich, wine-like liquid without absorbing its essence. Another element added to the mix…mayhap, it would be the answer this time.

The adder, Fantin reflected wisely, was the symbol of Eve’s temptation, and a fitting conduit in his work bent on purification and transfiguration.

His laboratory, dug beneath the stone floor of Tricourten’s Great Hall, had been Fantin’s refuge and salvation since he realized he was God’s chosen, and most especially since the loss of his beloved wife and daughter. Three long tables lined the chamber, which had more generous lighting than the hall above, due to fifty pitch torches lit by Tavis every morn and kept burning until late in the night.

Neat stacks of bowls—of every type of wood, rock, and metal—heaped at the end of each table. Goblets, skins, boxes, knives, pincers, spoons…all rested in the spot allotted to each of them, always arranged in a manner that would be most pleasing to God. Jars and pots of calendula, rosemary, woad leaves, belladonna, bergamot essence, dog’s grass, ragwort, and hundreds of other useful plants sat on shelves against the large stone wall near the metal chains and restraints. He had taken care that the shelves remained well out of reach of the unfortunates who might make use of those chains—he did not wish to have his herbalry dashed to the floor by a disturbed or frightened guest.

Fantin used a stick to prod the small fire burning in a large metal cauldron set into the wooden table. The bones of the hare he’d skinned earlier had turned to ash among the sticks from an apple tree, and the charred wood glowed a wicked orange on the underbelly of the pot.

“My lord.”

Fantin looked over at the berobed priest, who had just emerged from the tiny chapel built into the corner of his laboratory. His breathing quickened and sweat dampened his palms. He moved from the table toward the monk. “Father, have you word?”

Father Rufus, slender and thin-fingered, bore a sober look upon his narrow face. Weariness lined his cheeks, and the pasty whiteness of his skin bespoke of his many fortnights below-ground. “I’ve prayed long and hard and have at last received the answer which you seek.”

Fantin gripped the stick, his fingernails digging into his callused palm, his breathing quick and shallow. “Aye, Father, speak! What is it that I must do to bring God’s blessing upon me and revive the Philosopher’s Stone?”

“You must continue with your work,” Rufus told him. “God will not make clear the way until you have shown you are indeed fit for the deed. You must practice your work, you must continue to rid the world of its evils and temptations. You must study the writings of the ancients and you must continue to seek purification and transfiguration.”