Колин Глисон - Sanctuary of Roses

“His royal majesty, King Henry, demands the presence of Madelyne de Belgrume at his court.” His words were more formal than necessary, and he spoke them distinctly and with a hint of threat to be certain she understood the gravity of the situation. “I have been appointed to bring you to him.”

She remained silent, and Gavin waited impatiently for her outraged response. When she said nothing, he prodded her. “You do not deny that you are Madelyne de Belgrume, daughter of Fantin de Belgrume, Lord of Tricourten?”

“Nay.” The breath she expelled was silent, but of such force that he felt its warmth on his face.

“Then you know you must come with me.”

“Aye.”

Gavin was caught by the clear steadiness of her eyes, and then they were shuttered as she lowered her lids. She took away the cloth that had rested on her lap, protecting her gown, and set it on the ground. There seemed to be little more to say.

Made a bit uncertain by the ease of her acquiescence, Gavin rose to his feet and extended a hand to assist her to hers.

Madelyne reached for it, then stopped, and, dropping her hand back to her side, pulled to her own feet. “I do not wish to stain you,” she explained, spreading her blackened hands. “I will be thus for many days before it fades. Now, I must speak with Mother Bertilde. She does know that you have arrived?”

Gavin nodded, again struck by her clear practicality in what must be a moment of upheaval. “Aye. However, we must leave before matins, so do you not delay. I’ll not be tricked again, and I’ll not be held longer than need be.” The annoyance he’d felt at being deceived by a bunch of women surged within him, and he looked at her sharply. “No tricks, Madelyne.”

“Nay, my lord,” she responded. “It is past the time of tricks.”

Madelyne closed the door to her cell and leaned her full weight against it, covering her mouth with two shaking hands. She knew naught could keep the reality of Gavin of Mal Verne at bay, but she hadn’t the strength to hold herself upright any longer.

Dear God, she had known…had known he would come…had known deep in the most secret part of herself that her peace would be destroyed by this man. And, God’s Truth, she had prayed for it—prayed to see him again, prayed that he would find his way back to the abbey.

What had she done?

She choked on a sob and swallowed hard, hearing the grating sound of her dry throat in the dense silence. All in the abbey knew of his arrival, and knew the purpose of it. A hush of anxiety had fallen like a fog that smothered those within its walls.

Now, she must collect all of her strength and will and protect them all—most especially protect her mother. She must go willingly with him, she must find a way to keep him from learning of Anne’s existence. The memory haunted her: of those days at Tricourten, of her mother’s face, lined with worry and pain, with dark circles curving under her eyes and purple marks on her face and arms, and scars on her back.

Madelyne could never allow Anne to go back to Fantin, to that life.

A soft knocking at the door drew Madelyne’s scattered, panicked thoughts under control and she thrust herself away from it. Turning to gather her few belongings, desperate to keep her fears hidden, she called, “Enter.”

The door opened, but she did not turn from her trunk.

“Madelyne!”

To her surprise, it was Sister Patricka—not Mal Verne—who came into the small room. Before Madelyne could react, the other woman flew toward her, gathering her into her arms in a fierce embrace. “The Mother has told me you are to go with the men. I am going with you.”

Madelyne pulled away to look into her friend’s round, cherubic face. No fear or reluctance showed there, only earnestness and mayhaps a bit of apprehension. “You are to go with me?”

“Aye. There is no reason that I should stay here any longer—and I could not let you go alone. I have long realized I cannot take the final step and say my last vows. ’Tis not God’s will. So I shall go as your tiring woman. If you’ll have me.”

Relief flooded through Madelyne, and she hugged her again, huddling her face into Patricka’s shoulder. “Aye, Tricky, I would have you—if you are certain you wish to make that sacrifice. Only if you are certain.”

Patricka nodded with such vigor that her wimple slipped to one side. “Aye, and an honor it would be.”

Madelyne gripped her soft fingers, realizing that Patricka did not know how she and Anne had come to Lock Rose Abbey. “I cannot promise what will happen…there are many things you do not know, and that I cannot tell you at this time. But I vow that I’ll keep you from harm ere I can.”

“I have no fear of that, Maddie. The Mother did warn me that all was not as it seems. I place myself in your hands—and in God’s. ’Tis my belief that I can do you more good at your side than here, clutching prayer beads in the chapel.”

Madelyne gave a weak laugh. Tricky had a way of speaking that reduced complicated situations to such simple ones. “Thank you, my friend. Now, we must gather our things, for Lord Mal Verne does not intend to be kept waiting.”

When she had collected those few items she intended to take with her, Madelyne gave one last sweep of the small room with her gaze. Would she ever see this cell again, kneel at the worn prie dieu , sleep on the feather-stuffed bed?

Squaring her shoulders, she pulled the bag made of loose cloth that held her few personal belongings. She adjusted her veil and smoothed her skirt, uncertain how she looked—for there was no mirror in her cell—and left the room for the last time.

Outside, in the bailey, the rest of the sisters had gathered to bid her farewell. Lord Mal Verne and his men-at-arms stood a discreet distance away, and ’though he watched her steadily, he did not speak as she and Patricka embraced their friends.

Only Anne did not appear, and for this, Madelyne was grateful. She had said a brief farewell to her mother after speaking with Bertilde, and that leave-taking had been fraught with tears and sobs. They could not risk the chance that Anne would be seen or recognized by the men.

Thus, the last arms to hold her, and the last face to be kissed, was that of Mother Bertilde. She pulled Madelyne tightly to her and whispered, “God be with you, my child. Our prayers follow you wherever you go. May you have the strength and peace to accept that which is your future.”

Madelyne’s face was wet with tears when at last she began to walk across the bailey to join Mal Verne and his men. Tricky followed, leaving a sea of red-eyed women behind.

She approached Mal Verne, who continued to watch with stony eyes, and whose gaze flickered to Patricka as they walked closer. “I am ready to accompany you now, my lord. This is Patricka, my maid, who will accompany me.”

A twinge of satisfaction settled over her when she saw the disconcertion in his eyes. “Your maid? Nuns do not have maids.”

“Patricka is my maid, and she does accompany me whither I go. I trust that you will be able to accommodate one extra female.”

His mouth tightened ever so slightly—just enough for her to see that she had irked him with her cool response—and he turned abruptly, calling to one of his men. “Clem, the maid will ride with you.” He started toward the small herd of mounts gathered near the stable.

Madelyne took that as a silent command to follow him, and she gathered up the hem of her gown to do so. Some of the men were mounted, and others stood in a small cluster, holding the reins of whuffling, stamping destriers.

At the sight of the huge warhorses, Madelyne’s bravery deserted her.

The mounts stood many hands taller than she, with large heads and round eyes and huge, snorting noses. The hooves that fidgeted in the dirt or stamped in impatience were bigger than her face, and looked powerful enough to flatten a heavy oaken door with one thrust. Madelyne froze, unable to make herself move closer to the fierce creatures.