Sanctuary of Roses

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.



"If you wish to jump, the deed would be better done on the east side of the wall," he commented, stepping toward her. "There, the hill drops away to the cliffs of the sea. Rocks and the surf would make certain that the task would be complete, rather than leaving one a crippled mess."



"I would not jump," Madelyne replied, all too aware of the leaping of her pulse as he came to stand beside her. "'Tis a mortal sin."



He looked at her for a moment, his plain, sculpted features made almost handsome by the half-light. Then, his lips-full, wide and hard-curved into the faintest of smirks. "Ah, aye. How foolish of me to forget. One can wish for death, can court it in battle or elsewhere-but one cannot take matters into one's own hands and expect salvation."



Madelyne did not know how to respond to those words, for she sensed another layer to them-an almost melancholy sentiment. Instead, she continued to stare out over the darkening land.



Mal Verne stood next to her, unspeaking. Yet she was as aware of his every breath as she was of her own pulse beating through her veins. His hand rested on the waist-high stone, and she saw how long and thick his fingers were, how the veins and tendons and scars sculpted the back of it. How solid his wrist looked next to her own dainty one.



He broke the silence at last. "If you did not climb up here to elude Jube for the purpose of taking matters into your own hands and jumping, what was it that prompted you to come out in the midst of a gathering storm?"



Madelyne looked at the lightning that flashed in the north, closer now, then down again at her own hand resting next to his on the wall. Slim and pale, her fingers took up barely a third of the width of one stone brick, while his hand covered nearly the whole of one. A flash of memory caught her by surprise-an image of a hand, powerful and wide as Mal Verne's, raised in violence and darkness.



The remembrance was so strong that she took an involuntary step backward, her hand pulling to her chest to clutch at her cloak. He turned his head quickly to look at her, question and something akin to concern flashing in his eyes. "What is it?"



Feeling foolish at her reaction to a mere memory, Madelyne forced a smile and waved her action away. "'Twas naught but a night beetle that flew in my face," she replied lightly. "It startled me."



Mal Verne looked at her curiously for a moment, then relented and allowed her out from under his delving stare when he turned to look back toward the storm. "May I escort you below to your chamber now, my lady? The lightning draws near and you are at risk at this height."



Madelyne arched one brow but continued to look out over the land. "And what happened to my own personal guard, Jube? Is that not his duty, my lord?"



"I dismissed Jube, sending him to take his place out side of your chamber door." Mal Verne's voice rumbled low, not unlike the thunder echoing in the distance. "If you had planned to end your life thus, I preferred to be the one to witness it-as you are under my care in the name of the king." The stress on those last words was not lost on Madelyne. In that moment, she realized she believed him when he claimed he acted in the king's name.



And, she also knew the odd disappointment that 'twas not his desire to seek her company that had led Mal Verne to find her on the wall. "Very well, then, my lord." She turned abruptly to take his arm and found his stare fixed on her in such a way that caused her breath to hitch in her throat. For a moment, he was unmoving and she halted, confused and riddled with an odd heaviness in her limbs.



The moment froze-thunder crashed behind her, lightning zinged through the clouds, the smell of rain was in the air, and the brick felt rough and hard beneath her fingers-as he reached to touch her. His hand hovered in mid-air for a second, as if he hesitated, then rested warm and heavy on top of her head. His fingers smoothed over the side of her skull, bumping over one thick braid, and slid along the heavy tresses that were tucked under her cloak.



Madelyne hardly dared breathe. No one had touched her that way...ever. Certainly not a man. Certainly not the man to whom she now played hostage. Her heart thumped madly, but for all of that...nay, she was not truly alarmed. Why did he not frighten her-this large, stony, gruff man?



"You have beautiful hair," he murmured in the same low, rumbly voice he'd used a moment earlier. He stepped toward her, his presence surrounding Madelyne like a cape. She felt the wall behind her and looked up into his eyes, inscrutable in the dimness. Her heart thundered in her chest and her mouth dried as the heaviness of his gaze sent heat coursing through her.



Then, suddenly, it was as if something snapped. He fell back, his hand slamming to his side, and the urgency gone from his gaze. "'Twould have been a sin had you cut it." His words were fact of the matter, and made in a sharp, almost cutting voice. "Now, lady, may I take you below where you will be protected from the storm?"



Her head spinning, and her face warm with the flush of mortification, Madelyne could do naught but nod. Disdaining his proffered arm, she turned her back to him and, clutching a handful of skirt, started toward the stairs.



'Twas just as well that he did not sleep well that night, Gavin would realize later with some relief.



This first night back in his own chambers should have been one of comfort and rest. For the first time in many a moon, he was not forced to unroll a traveling pallet onto cold, hard ground, or to sleep on a lumpy, hay-filled pallet in a chamber he shared with a myriad of other snorting, snoring, snuffling men.



Rosa had bathed him and would have serviced him further had he wished, but Gavin declined, desiring only his own company. He stood at the window slit, clad in his chausses with loosed cross garters, watching the lightning brighten the sky as if it were midday. The wall beneath his fingers shuddered as thunder crashed above.



Mayhap he should have availed himself of Rosa's offer, else he would not have made such a fool of himself upon the wall with Lady Madelyne...and likely he would be sleeping soundly instead of watching the rain trail off from its brief, thrashing downpour.



Clean wetness filled the air, tingeing his nostrils and cooling his bare chest as he leaned on the bottom of the arrow slit and looked out over his domain. Yet, in the darkness, he could see only the perfect oval of the nun's fair face, upturned to him with wide eyes, darkened by the night shadows. And her lips...Jesu...they were full and wide-made for kissing, he'd thought in one absurd moment before he'd remembered who she was.



Even now, his own mouth twisted in disgust. Madelyne was the daughter of his dearest enemy, as well as a woman prepared to embrace religious life. She could have no idea that her innocent beauty was enough to make a man hot with desire...even a man who had not touched a woman other than the occasional whore or serving wench for seven years.



Gavin pushed himself away from the window and folded his arms over his chest, pacing to the fireplace to stoke up the smoldering blaze. The sooner he turned the woman over to Henry, the better off he would be.



He poked at the charred logs that glowed with orange embers, releasing sparks and tiny tongues of flame. The short rainstorm had cooled the summer night and his chamber had become chill, yet he was not yet ready to seek the warmth of his bed.



When he received notification of where the royal court would be stopping for the next months, he would pack up his guest-and her erstwhile maid-and take them to Henry himself. And then, he would never have to see the woman with her calm gray eyes again.



The king would likely make her a royal ward, keeping her under his care or that of the queen in order to control the actions of Fantin de Belgrume. It was well-known of de Belgrume that he had greatly mourned the loss of his daughter and wife, and verily he would be more easily brought to heel knowing that his daughter yet lived. Mayhap the king might even find a way to relieve de Belgrume of his fiefdom, thereby putting an end to the madman's resources.



Gavin nodded to himself and replaced the long metal pole he'd used to tease the fire, refusing to give credence to the niggling guilt at the back of his mind. She would be better off at court, he told himself, ignoring the echo of her own explanation as to why life in the abbey afforded her more freedom. A woman such as she-beautiful, with lands aplenty through her father-was not meant to while herself away in an abbey.



Peste! He stalked over to the window again. What did he care of her future? He had a task to do-to bring her father under control-and the king expected nothing less of him to do so. If he felt guilt by taking her from the solace of Lock Rose Abbey, that was merely a sign of his own weakness and an uncontrollable factor in his doing his duty.



He stared unseeing over the world below, catching out of the corner of his eye the impression of dawn starting to lighten the sky. The cool tang of rain-filled air had evaporated, to be replaced by a bitter acridity of smoke. Gavin sniffed, frowning, then turned his attention to the town below.



Where the darkness should have yielded only the faint gray outlines of cottages and huts, a yellow glow flickered on the west side of the town.



By the time Gavin reached the village, crowds of peasants and men-at-arms had gathered in the streets. Three of buildings were ablaze, and sparks and flames leapt and jumped with such vigor on the gusty wind that 'twas only a matter of time until the next buildings caught afire. Though dawn was beginning to give natural light to the sky, shadows danced eerily over the faces of women and children who stood to one side of the street, watching as the men threw bucket after bucket of water onto the flames.



Soot and black smoke whorled from the buildings, mingling with the moist air and choking the bystanders and fire fighters. Gavin pushed his way through the crowds of people to join his men near the blaze, quickly taking a place at the front of a line that passed the leather buckets to and from the town well.



Clem stood next to him, handing him dripping pail after dripping pail. He swiped at his sweating face with a thick arm, smearing black ash over his cheek and temple.



"'Twas lightning struck the house here," he told Gavin as he whirled to shove a full bucket into his lord's middle. He turned away to get another, then spun back to take the empty and pass on the full. "It must have smoldered below the roof for some time, else-" He turned away again, then back, "the rain would have put it out."



Gavin grunted in agreement, forbearing to point out that the brevity of the storm, fierce as it was, had likely contributed. The thatched roofs of the peasant homes were particularly susceptible to such dangers. It had happened more than once in this village alone-lightning had struck, passing through the roof into a house, setting the interior ablaze before anyone realized it.



"Did all get out safely?" he asked Clem, slamming an empty bucket into the man's hand.



"Aye, I believe so...although-" He turned back as Gavin turned toward the fire in the rhythm they had established, then they returned face to face. "Robert the Cooper has a bad burn."



A sudden wind blustered, sending ash and smoke billowing into the faces of the fire fighters. Gavin ducked, holding up an arm to ward off the black fog. Something stung him fiercely on the shoulder, and he slapped a hand there to brush away the sparks that landed on his bare skin. He cursed himself for neglecting to pull on a sherte before leaving the keep, but there was no time to stop now.



"This way!" A voice shouted, and the mass of fire fighters stumbled, shifting several steps in one direction to move out of the wind's changed path.



The buckets kept coming, but the wind would not allow them to gain an advantage. Soon, the walls of the first building collapsed inward, sending up a shower of sparks and ash. A spray of orange coals scattered over Gavin, stinging like tiny needles that he didn't have the time to brush away. Already, a fourth building was beginning to smoke in the hay-like thatch of the roof.



With a shout that had grown rough because of the sooty air, Gavin pointed at the coil of smoke coming from the building. He beckoned for two of the lines of bucket-passers to turn their attention to this new danger, then, with a quick nod to Clem, he slipped out of his own position and started toward the group of women and children.



Pointing to the wife of the smith, he said, "You-Sally-get you those children who are old enough, and whatever women can be spared from watching the young ones, and throw water on this house next. If we have God's luck, we shall keep it from spreading further."



He was just about to return to his place in line when an agonized scream reached his ears.



He turned to see a woman running toward the fourth of the burning buildings. "My son! Barden! My son!" She would have dashed into the blaze had Gavin not thrown out an arm and caught her around the waist.



When she looked up and recognized him, even that did not stop her from struggling to get free. "My lord! My son's home! My son and his wife!" she shrieked-a mournful, wailing cry that tore at Gavin's heart. "I cannot find them! They are burning!"



"They are there?" he asked, looking at the building, gauging how badly it was burning within. His glance flickered over the mass of people that worked as one body, passing buckets and tossing water. It was unlikely that Barden and his wife had not been awakened by the activity. Thus, if they were within the house, they were most certainly dead. "Stay you here." He started toward the house.



"My lord-" her shriek of mingled gratitude and horror followed him as he started toward the small home.



Gavin was near enough to feel the blistering waves of heat from the building next door when a hand closed over his arm. He shook his arm to loosen the grip, and turned in annoyance to see a familiar, soot-covered face. "Lady Madelyne!" he exclaimed, stopping. "What are you doing?"



"Nay, my lord, you cannot go in there!" she tightened her grip on his bare arm, seemingly heedless of the sweat that made her fingers slip. She was dressed in a long, stained gown, with the bulk of her hair pulled back into a thick braid. Sweat dripped down her own face, which was flushed from exertion and speckled with ash.



"I must see to her son," he said simply. "'Tis my duty. I am the lord, and I am foresworn to protect my vassals." He started away again.



"Nay! My lord!" Moments later, she was after him again, carrying a bucket of water. "Wait."



He turned, more annoyed. "You cannot say me nay, Madelyne. I must-"



"I would not. But, here, take this to cover your mouth and head." She handed him a length of cloth, and he saw that she had torn her gown to her knees. It was wet and cool, and she helped him to wrap it around his head and shoulders, leaving a flap to pull over his mouth and nose. "Have a care!"



Her words followed him, even over the crackle and hiss of flame and the calls and shouts of bucket-passers, and for once he did not ask himself why he should have a care for his safety. Instead, he paused at what once was the door of the house, wrapped the wet cloth more tightly over his head, and pulled up a piece of it to cover his face.



He kicked out at the sagging door of the house, shoving it into an interior that was dim. Smoke did not billow out, which bespoke of the fact that mayhap the fire had not progressed as far as he'd feared. Gavin stepped inside gingerly, watching for fallen timbers and other pitfalls.



The house was little more than a hut, and it did not take much effort to scan the room with his gaze, even in the dimness of the interior. At first, he saw naught but the flames that licked the ceiling, kissing the walls and dropping an occasional tuft of fire onto the floor. Then, back in a corner, he saw a large, unfamiliar shape.



Stepping over a fallen beam, he skirted the edge of the building to avoid the fire in the center, and approached the lump. It was a piece of the wall, and had folded inward, collapsing onto a pallet, leaving an opening just next to the blaze outside.



With a grunt of triumph, Gavin stepped over a collapsed stool and, continuing to hold the cloth over his face, used one hand to push the wall up. It sagged, bowing in the center, but held together so that he lifted it up enough to see the two people it had covered. Though he could not tell if they yet lived, he dropped the cloth from his face to push the wall away, and it fell outside of the hut, landing against the next house that burned. The smoke suddenly speared into his nose and mouth, and Gavin found himself needing to duck near the floor. Fighting the cough that welled inside his lungs, he replaced the cloth over his nose and reached to grab the woman's arm with his free hand.



He grasped her wrist, half lifting her off the floor, and slipped his arm around under both of her arms, then began to push his way toward the opening where the wall had collapsed. He was just reaching it when he realized the fire next door was too close for him to make it out safely, and he was forced to turn.



By now, the smoke was burning his eyes so that they were hardly tearing any longer and he could see little but blurred shapes. It was hot, and sweat made him and his grip slippery and clumsy. He took several steps toward the door before stumbling and nearly falling to his knees.



Nay, Father, do not take me now!



The thought came from nowhere, but came with a galvanizing strength, and Gavin felt a burst of energy beat back the fatigue he'd been feeling. He took two more steps toward the door, and was just about to reach for the edge of the opening when a loud crash filled the air. A sudden wave of smoke and flame buffeted toward him, and the last thing he saw was the roof tumbling toward him.