Sanctuary of Roses (9 page)

Tricky dug soap scented with basil and
rosemary from a small crock, using it to clean under Madelyne’s
fingernails and to wash the grime and sweat from all parts of her
body. Even the black rose-petal stains had faded when she was
finished.

The loosing of Madelyne’s braid after two
days relieved the tightness of her skull, and the pleasure-pain of
it had her sighing in soft delight. How wonderful it felt when Peg
began to pour warm water over her thick hair, and how much more
like heaven on earth could it be when she used her strong fingers
to massage her scalp!

It was not until she stood in front of the
fire, wrapped in a soft blanket, that Madelyne remembered the
clothing. She held out a hand to stop Tricky as she approached with
the blue undergown.

“Nay, Tricky, I cannot wear such fine
clothing. You of all know that I’m promised to our Lord God, and
that I cannot in good conscience don flamboyant finery. Peg, ’tis
not my place to use that which belongs to Lady Mal Verne.”

The two women exchanged glances, and Tricky
nodded as if to give Peg permission to respond. “My lady, I am
sorry, but your clothing has been taken to be washed. And, ’tis the
lord’s orders that you dress as befits your station, as the Lady of
Tricourten. Wherever that land may be, certainly the women there do
not see such simple gowns as flamboyant.” She gestured to the
overtunic, which was pale blue, embroidered with gold and silver
threads. “This is but a plain gown, my lady, by standards at court.
And verily, you will wear aught that is more up to date when you
join the king.”

Peg sighed, smoothing a hand over the
embroidery that rimmed the edges of the overtunic, her eyes taking
on a far-away look. “I remember that day when mine own baby Shirl
went to care for one of the queen’s ladies, and how she pored over
the patterns and cloths and threads to be certain that she should
dress in her finest, and that all that she brought with her for her
lady was the most beautiful to be had from Lockswood, and even
there at court ’twas as if she were naught but a country bumpkin.
An’ how my daughter worked to learn that new fashion, worked day
and night, and….” Her voice trailed off and a look of confusion
passed over her face. She glanced at the cloth she held in her
hand, then at Madelyne, and the light of understanding came back
into her eyes. “Ah, well, aye, my lady. You must be dressed ere
supper is served, and this is all that you have to wear.”

Madelyne’s gaze strayed to the fine cloth,
but she resolutely turned from it and walked over to the bed, where
several other gowns lay strewn across it. “There must be something
else that more befits a nun,” she murmured, poring over the
clothing. She paused at a pale yellow gown with little frippery. “I
shall wear this, for ’tis more subdued and more suited to one of
God’s women.”

“Nay, my lady,” Tricky said, resting a hand
upon her arm. Madelyne turned to look at her, surprise causing her
brows to rise at the formal address. “Lady,” Tricky said again with
such ease, as if she had always addressed her as her better, “with
all respect, you are not a nun, as yet…and you are the Lady of
Tricourten. ’Tis God’s will that you are here, and God’s will that
you bear the mantle of your position.”

She showed Madelyne the blue undergown, the
color of a brilliant sapphire, with delicate gold embroidery along
the neckline and the laces of the tight sleeves. “That yellow will
cause you to look aught but ill and sallow, whilst this blue will
cause your eyes to take on its sheen. An’ the cut of this is more
flattering, as the sleeves will show the fine lines of your arms
and draw attention to your height.”

Annoyed by Tricky’s sudden fashion
expertise, Madelyne pursed her lips and frowned. “But—”

“Come now, my lady,” Peg insisted, gently
taking the pale yellow cloth from her fingers and urging her toward
Tricky. “Though you are a bit taller than Lady Mal Verne, you are
of a size. Now, ’tis not in our interest to anger Lord Mal Verne,
either, so we shall fix you up rightly and send you down for supper
anon.”

With a sigh of capitulation, Madelyne
acquiesced to the new-found fussiness of her maid and her
mentor.

* * *

Her hair was black.

“Good evening, my lady,” Gavin said as he
struggled to contain his shock at the transformation of Lady
Madelyne. Out of her habit and veil, and garbed in clothing that he
thought had belonged to Nicola, Lady Madelyne de Belgrume was
barely recognizable…and looked not the least bit nunlike.

“My lord.” She gave a brief curtsey, bowing
her head slightly, her thick, dark hair spilling over her shoulders
and brushing the floor at his feet.

Some masterful person—Peg, he realized—had
taken that thick, inky river, taming it into two thick braids that
pulled back from his guest’s temples…and left the rest of it to
fall unencumbered down Lady Madelyne’s back. When she raised her
face and reached to place her fingers on his arm, he noticed a
thin, gold chain that rested on her forehead and was woven into the
darkness of her braids.

It was glorious hair.

With a start, Gavin realized he’d frozen,
and she now waited for him to lead her to the dais upon which they
would sup. “Come,” he said abruptly, turning toward the high table
and forcing his attention to matters at hand.

As the most high-ranking persons in the
hall, he and Lady Madelyne were the only two seated at the high
table. He took the lord’s chair, the massive, walnut seat with a
cushioned bench and without arms. She gathered her gown carefully,
settling its folds over her legs, as she sat in Nicola’s regular
seat.

Gavin had just taken a sip from the
excellent Bordeaux Mal Verne imported from Aquitaine when Lady
Madelyne ruined his meal.

“I must thank your wife for allowing me to
wear her clothing,” she said, looking at him from behind her own
wine glass. “Will she be joining us this evening?”

He felt the familiar anger and a bit of
humiliation rise within him, and recalled those many, many evenings
when Nicola sat to his left as Lady Madelyne now did. The woman had
been a viper in his world, and he’d not known it until it was too
late. “I do not speak of my wife,” he said in the deathly chill
voice he used whenever he meant to intimidate. “Nor does anyone
else within my hearing.”

Her eyes widened, innocent and luminous.
Then she turned away, poking at the chunk of fish he’d placed in
her bread trencher. “I did not mean to pry,” she said steadily, but
he noticed that there was the slightest tremor to her fingers as
she reached for a crust of bread. Then, with a boldness that
surprised him, she firmed her lips and continued, “Whatever reason
you do not choose to speak of your wife is of no matter to me, but
there is no need to leap upon me over the most innocent of
comments.” She did not look at him, but instead took a dainty bite
of bread.

Gavin snapped his mouth shut on the apology
he’d been about to make for his sharp, hasty words. Had the wench
shed her nunlike modesty along with her habit and veil? He took
another sip of wine to hide his chagrin as much as the admiration
he felt at her temerity.

“I,” she continued, this time turning to
look at him with a spark of fire in her cool eyes, “meant only to
make polite conversation with you, my lord. Thus, I shall leave it
in your hands as to whether we have a silent meal or nay.”

If he had not seen that her hand still
trembled when she reached with great casualness for her wine
goblet, he might have been angry at her continued audacity. But
that bit of tremor eased his ire and he merely gave her a
slant-eyed look. “But you have only tried one topic of
conversation, my lady. Surely you do not intend to give up on me so
easily?”

Mayhap it was the fact that he’d tamed the
sharpness in his voice that prompted her to try again. However, her
next words brought no more palatable a topic than Nicola had
been.

“Then, my lord, perhaps you inform me of the
purpose for which the king has summoned me, and when I shall see
him myself.” Again, she did not look at him, but continued to pick
at her food as though uninterested in his reply.

“If only my men were as unerring in their
aim with a bow as you have been in suggesting topics of
conversation that do not appeal to me!” He bit into a piece of
cheese, chewed, and swallowed as he formulated his reply. “I have
sent word to the king that you are in my company. As to the answers
to your questions, I cannot say, but you will remain here under my
guard.”

This time Lady Madelyne looked at him. “Do
you then—in the name of the king—intend to keep me prisoner here at
Mal Verne? As I have seen no evidence of a writ from his majesty
ordering my presence, I wonder if he is even aware of my existence.
Or have you merely used his name in order to gain your
will—whatever that may be?”

Annoyance flared within him and he looked at
her sharply. “That would be treason, my lady. I do not tolerate
such implications by anyone, be it man or woman—particularly one
who is a guest in my home.”

“A guest?” Lady Madelyne raised her fine
eyebrows, adopting an innocent posture that grated on him. “I was
not under the impression that my status is that of a guest. If that
is the case, then I am free to leave at my will—am I not?”

Gavin dragged his gaze that had somehow
become fastened on her shapely mouth up to glare into her eyes.
“Lady Madelyne,
if
you were given the freedom to leave—which
I will not give—you would last no more than a night without these
castle walls. Do not speak of such absurdity.” He returned to
demolishing his meal, certain that that would be the end of it.

But, still, she would not relent—and her
tenacity was beginning to wear upon him. “Such may have been said
to my mother and myself ten autumns ago, when we left Tricourten
with naught but the clothing on our backs and a few simple jewels,
my lord.”

Gavin placed his goblet very deliberately on
the table and turned to face her fully. He would not allow this
wisp of a woman to goad him into losing his temper—but he knew he
was nearing the end of his tether. “Lady Madelyne,” he said
tightly, “if it would end this discussion then, aye, I shall call
you not a guest, but a hostage. Aye, a hostage of the king. And,
lady, if you could read, I would show you the writ that orders me
to bring you to his majesty.”

“Very well, then, Lord Mal Verne. A hostage
I am. And, as I am capable of reading not only French, but Latin
and Greek, I should be pleased to peruse that writ of which you
speak.” She used her eating knife to spear a piece of turbot and
raise it to her mouth.

Gavin snapped his jaws shut so hard that his
jaw hurt. “Very well, my lady. On the morrow you shall see your
writ. And methinks I should prefer a silent meal after all.”

Seven

Buildings forming the town of Mal Verne lay
like little studs on the plateau below the castle wall. The orange
sun had lowered to just above the horizon, and thick gray clouds
had begun to fill the sky. A distant rumble of thunder came on the
cool night air, and far off to the north, Madelyne could see a
flash of lightning illuminate the belly of a heavy cloud.

The wind whipped up, tossing about her skirt
and the hood she’d drawn over her head as she looked down from the
castle wall. Jube, the tall, blond guard Lord Mal Verne had
delegated to her, leaned casually against one of the merlons,
talking with another man-at-arms who’d been assigned the night
watch. He stood far enough away that she didn’t feel smothered, but
close enough that she was aware she was not free to come and go as
she pleased.

Hostage. Madelyne clenched her fingers
together under her cloak and closed her eyes. Innocent of the ways
of the political world, she knew she was at a disadvantage in
parrying to keep her freedom, to keep herself safe from the hands
of her father. She would see that writ on the morrow, and mayhaps
there would be a clue within to indicate what the king planned to
do.

A large, wet drop splashed on her face, and
thunder cracked more insistently. Still, Madelyne saw no reason to
take herself within the confines of the keep that had suddenly
become her prison. Jube looked over at her, his face placid, and
when she made no indication that she was ready to move, he returned
to his conversation. The wind carried a word or two from the men to
Madelyne’s ears. She heard mention of hunt and horses, and knew
they discussed purely masculine matters—matters that were
unfamiliar to her.

That trail of thought brought her to that
which had been hovering at the back of her mind all the evening:
Lord Mal Verne. The man was harsh and rude and unfriendly, yet she
still had that self-same fascination for him. Mayhap the reason lay
in the fact that though he snapped and snarled, she saw beyond the
hardness of his face and the steely coldness of his eyes to the
depths that hinted at more than that…suffering, perhaps, or
fear….

Madelyne shook her head, dismissing those
fanciful thoughts. Mal Verne was a man—a fierce, hard one, not
unlike her own father—and ’twas foolish of her to think that she
saw more.

She turned to summon Jube, suddenly ready to
return to her chamber and to put those thoughts from her mind, but
to her surprise, he and his companion had disappeared. Turning to
look behind her, thinking that mayhap they’d strolled further along
the wall as they talked, she found no one. Madelyne stepped nearer
to the edge of the wall and looked down into the bailey, which had
become nearly deserted and quiet in the last hour.

A movement behind her caused her to whirl,
her skirts wrapping around her legs and the hood dropping from her
head. “Lord Mal Verne.”

There was no mistaking him, for even though
the sun had nearly completed its drop beyond the horizon, and the
moon was nowhere to be found, the light from wall sconces cast
enough glow for her to recognize the form that shifted from the
shadows. Tall, with thick, uncut hair that blustered in the
swelling wind, he stood before her, his hands folded at the waist
of his tunic. The reserved pose belied the vitality that ever
exuded from him, and Madelyne, as always, felt it.