Sanctuary of Roses (5 page)

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.”

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.

Four

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.

“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.”