Колин Глисон - Sanctuary of Roses

The dry wood cracked in Fantin’s hand. “Is there naught more you can tell me, Father? I have been working for nearly twelve summers. Twelve summers, I have known I was the one chosen…and yet, I have not attained that promise. When shall I complete my life’s work to be pure and holy and one with God?”

“Twelve summers, my lord, is naught but a drop in the sea for our God,” the priest admonished him.

Fantin struggled with his rising impatience. He swiped the long sleeve of his robe over the perspiration that dampened his forehead, then folded his hands, once more, inside the sleeves of his robe. “Nine priests I have had, and not a one of you can interpret God’s message.”

“My lord,” the priest replied in a voice raspy with disuse, “do you not fret. There is more. Prithee, you must show some patience. All good rewards from Above will come only to those who show patience and servitude and humility. Our God will send you a sign. A sign to show you the way. ’Twill appear very soon, mayhap this se’ennight. It is your duty to recognize the message, and follow the direction thus and the difficulty of your journey shall ease.”

He stared directly into Fantin’s eyes, and Fantin felt himself beginning to calm, to find clarity in the vision before him. The red light that had colored his world receded. Aye, the father had the right of it. He must watch for the sign. He must pray long and hard. He must continue the work of purification, the task he had been set to years before.

“Aye, Father…you have great wisdom,” Fantin responded in his warm, smooth voice. He added a smile that, although it moved his face, did not reach completely within. He must remain patient, yet he felt his frustration…his need…growing stronger each day. The red light edging the corners of his vision threatened more oft than not as of late.

If only he need not rely on the priest and could pass his own days with prayer, mayhap he would understand sooner, mayhap he might more easily learn what he sought. Yet Fantin did not have the time to spend in prayer that must be spent, for he must manage his lands, and work his formulas, and conduct those other tasks that befell him as a mere mortal man.

The image of Gavin of Mal Verne slipped into his memory, suddenly, disturbing the calmness he’d managed to attain. Aye, at the least that task was complete. At any moment, he expected word that Mal Verne had indeed met his demise—left wounded and far from help, where Fantin had last seen him.

It might not have been a direct order from God to send Mal Verne to hell, but Fantin knew it was what he must do. Mal Verne sought to disrupt his own work. He had taken Gregory from him, and Nicola—and if Fantin did not remove the man from this world, Mal Verne would continue to seek his own revenge upon Fantin. God helped only those who helped themselves.

Indeed, and ’twas surely a test of his mettle that Fantin had failed so many times during this journey. But the end was in sight, according to Rufus.

Fantin praised his God for sending him the skinny priest only three months earlier—for Rufus, more than any other, understood his task and his purpose, and acted as a holy conduit between Fantin and the Lord of All.

And when he completed his tasks as set by God, Fantin knew he would be graced by the formula for the Philosopher’s Stone.

Fantin’s hands no longer shook. He and the priest both would watch for the promised sign, and he would act accordingly. And God would find him worthy.

She was in the garden when they came for her.

After two fortnights spent trying to banish him from her memory, Madelyne sensed his presence even before she heard the clink of sword against his mail chausses.

A shadow, long and heavy, fell across her lap where she was forming rose beads. The black mush of stewed rose petals covered her hands and arms and spotted an old gown. The air was heavy with the scent of the flowers, nearly as smothering as the weight that settled over her when she realized he’d come.

And yet, at the same time, a rush of something else flooded her when she looked up into his grave face. ’Twas almost welcome, seeing him again, feeling the command of his full strength as she had not when he was ill.

“My lord.”

“Lady Madelyne. You do not seem surprised to see me.”

That he used her title did not surprise her. Verily he’d discovered her identity and that was the reason he’d come. For a brief moment, panic surged through her, but she beat it back and wrapped her own strength about her. God would be with her, and…God help her, but she did not believe Lord Mal Verne would hurt her.

“Nay, I am not. What do you wish from me?”

He stood, looking down at her, his shadow casting darkness over her work. “What do you do there?”

Madelyne held up two small wooden paddles, grateful for a moment’s reprieve before he should respond, and replied, “The rose petals have been cooked for days. Now, I take them betwixt these spoons and roll them into beads. See there.” She pointed to a length of linen spread in the sun, dotted with perfect, round beads.

To her surprise, he reached into a leather pouch that hung from his tunic and pulled out the prayer beads she’d left with him before. “You’ve become more skilled in these last years.”

“Aye.”

She was surprised again when he hunkered down to sit next to her on the log bench. Now, his face was nearly on level with hers, and his nearness even more overpowering. Strength, warmth, intensity vibrated from his person—yet his eyes and his countenance remained cold and bleak. Madelyne had the sudden urge, so odd at this moment when he threatened her peace and well-being, to touch his face, to learn whether it was as unyielding as it appeared. She curled her fingers into themselves and willed her foolishness not to betray her.

“Why did you trick me? Why did you not allow us to leave with some dignity?”

She swallowed. ’Twas no surprise that a man of his power should be angered at such deceit. Using one of the flat spoons, she scooped up a small portion of the black stew and began to roll it into the shape of a ball as she chose her words to respond.

Gavin watched how her fine hands manipulated the paddles, noticing again the three freckles that decorated one narrow wrist. Her head was bent, and the edge of its veil obstructed much of the expression on her face, though he could see the length of long, thick lashes as she blinked. She had shown no surprise at his presence, nor mistrust, he thought. How could that be?

“We sought only to protect ourselves.”

Her words, when they came, were as even and calm as the rhythm of her breathing. She looked at him, and he saw nothing but the gray depths of her eyes, clear and without deceit, without fear. For a fleeting moment, he wondered when last a woman had looked upon him without fear…and with such guilelessness. She had naught to hide, it seemed…but he knew that could not be so.

“Forgive us for acting in such a manner,” she continued, “but, my lord, we did what we thought best.”

“You removed us from the abbey so that we couldn’t find our way here again, yet you aren’t disturbed at my presence.”

She blinked, and he could see the faintest movement of her lips as they tightened in the first indication of uneasiness. “’Tis true, I wish that you hadn’t found your way back to the abbey…but now you are here, and there is naught I can do. Your presence portends little good for me, but I prithee…do you not hurt my sisters.”

“I mean harm to none here at Lock Rose Abbey,” Gavin replied. “I merely come in the king’s name.”

“The king? What has he to do with those of us here?” Confusion passed over her face, and she allowed the black-stained paddles to drop into the stew pot.