Sanctuary of Roses

"Look you there, Lady Madelyne." Lord Mal Verne pointed in a southerly direction as they reached the crest of a hill. "'Tis Mal Verne."



Madelyne turned obediently, and found herself looking across a small valley to another, larger hill, on which a rambling stone wall rimmed its height. Gold and black flags bearing the standard of Mal Verne fluttered over merlons that jutted like great teeth along the top of the wall. From her view, she could see the small figures of men-at-arms walking around the enclosure, and to the farthest south corner, she saw the heavy iron portcullis that blocked entrance to the bailey. The small buildings of the town clustered on a plateau below the wall, and down in the valley were healthy green fields ready to be harvested.



Lord Mal Verne kicked Rule, the warhorse, and, as if sensing he was near home, the stallion charged off the hill. Madelyne stifled a shriek as she was jounced abruptly to one side, nearly losing her grip on his mane before catching her balance, and she closed her eyes as they headed straight down the hill. She would have begun praying aloud had Mal Verne not given a short bark of laughter and tightened his arms on either side of her.



"Do you not fear, my lady. I have not brought you this far to have you fall beneath Rule's hooves!"



Madelyne pressed her lips together and sat even straighter in her seat. She would not show her fear...and she would not allow herself to fall! Those words became a chant in her mind as they careened down the hill, the other men in their party so close on their heels that she feared they'd be overturned, if not trampled, by their zealous companions.



It was not until Mal Verne shouted a greeting that rang in her ear that Madelyne's eyes flew open and she found that they had attained a more horizontal position. They'd covered the space between the two mountainous hills in such a short time that she was thankful anew that she hadn't watched as they hurtled past trees and down the slope.



"A Mal Verne!" she heard the men on the stone wall cry in response to their lord's hail. The party of knights was close enough to the castle wall that she could see their gold and black tunics, emblazoned with the now-familiar standard, and the sleeves of their chain hauberks glinting in the sun.



Mal Verne slowed the party to a trot as they reached the edge of the village, and Madelyne watched with interest as the peasants and tradespeople came to crowd the sides of the thoroughfare, waving at their lord. They were not fearful at all, even of the great destriers that pranced impatiently down the street-although Madelyne noted that the mothers took care that their children did not get too close to the horses.



Vague memories of riding through the town at Tricourten stirred in her mind, and the images were of naught but empty streets and shuttered homes. 'Twas clear that Lord Mal Verne was, if not well-liked, at the least not feared by the villeins who farmed his rich lands.



She felt movements behind her, him brushing against her back and causing her to sit further forward, as he nodded and gestured to the peasants. Though he did not stop to speak with any of them at length, he did call to several by name. She felt the weight of curious stares on her as they jounced along, and realized how odd it must seem for a nun to be sharing the saddle with their lord.



When they reached the portcullis, it lifted quickly and noiselessly-bespeaking of the care and maintenance that obviously went into its upkeep. Although Madelyne knew little of the ways of war, she was well-educated in the management of a household, for all of the sisters shared in the tasks at Lock Rose Abbey. She knew the value of a gate that raised and lowered without hesitation.



Then, before she had time to muse further, the party entered the bailey and rode to the massive stone keep that sat on the far end of the huge, enclosed yard. Marshals and men-at-arms swarmed the travelers and horses, accepting reins as the knights dismounted.



Madelyne waited as Mal Verne dismounted gracefully from behind her, then stepped around to the side of the saddle over which her legs were positioned. Instead of assisting her to dismount immediately, he gathered up Rule's reins and turned to speak with a stocky, black-haired man who looked to be perhaps a decade older than he.



"Robert! By the looks of it, you're fare better than the last I saw you, after that incident with the shield. Glad to see you aren't so black and blue. This woman is Lady Madelyne de Belgrume," he announced. "She is to be treated as a guest, but not allowed without the keep unescorted." Pointing a finger at a tall, blond man with a crooked nose, he commanded, "Jube, you shall be responsible for the lady's well-being in my absence."



Madelyne watched silently as her accommodations were discussed as if she weren't present. So this is how it would be in a man's world.



Mal Verne stood near enough to her that she could reach forward and touch the darkness of his shaggy hair. The sleeves of his mail hauberk shifted, jangling quietly as he gestured with his arm. He had not shaven for some time, and dark stubble grew over his cheeks and chin, adding sharpness to the planes of his face.



He turned to her without warning, his stone-gray eyes locking onto her gaze for a brief moment, causing her breath to heavy. Madelyne quickly looked away, down, and found her attention focused on his booted feet. Then all at once, strong hands spanned her waist, and she was lifted up and down from the saddle with a smoothness that indicated the ease with which he handled her weight.



Upon the ground, Madelyne staggered slightly before she gained her footing, swaying against his broad chest for the briefest of moments before she stepped back. He glanced at her as she steadied herself, and she managed a weak smile. Patricka, who, likewise had been assisted down from her mount, came to stand by her side, looking as lost and uncertain as Madelyne herself felt.



Mal Verne turned his attention to the stocky man named Robert and, as they began to speak in low tones, they started toward the large oaken door that led to the keep.



Madelyne and Patricka hesitated, but when the man called Jube gestured for them to follow, they linked arms and walked toward the massive entrance. Jube and a cluster of other men-at-arms traced their footsteps, while others melted away, most likely to return to their duties.



Inside the keep, Madelyne found herself dwarfed by the high-ceilinged Great Hall and the lines of crude, log-hewn tables that filled it. For a brief moment, a shiver of remembrance flitted through her mind, bringing with it the image of the smoke- and laughter-filled hall at Tricourten on the night she and her mother had escaped. Casting a sidewise glance at the dais where the lord and his guests would sup, Madelyne almost expected to see her father sitting there with his cronies as he played the lute and sang with the voice of an angel. Her apprehension settled when she saw that the table was empty, and she silently berated herself for her nervousness.



As long as she was in the king's care, Fantin could not hurt her. Thus Madelyne would do whatever she must in order to remain under the king's protection.



Still ignored by Mal Verne and his men, she took the opportunity to study the tapestries that hung on the walls, stretching to such a height that she had to strain her neck in order to see the top of the images, and then to look around at the people scurrying about their business. The rushes beneath her feet rustled, and although she saw one mouse dashing away when his slumber was disturbed, she noted that the keep seemed as well-kept as the bailey and stone wall.



Then, suddenly, she was aware that all were staring at her. She looked at Mal Verne, whose voice speaking her name had caused her to look up, and saw that he was giving her an impatient look.



"My lady, do you not wish for a bath and a change of clothing before supper?"



"Oh, aye," she gave him a grateful smile, and was rewarded as his stone-face seemed to falter for a moment.



Then, as if that flinch had not occurred, Mal Verne gestured with a graceful hand to very short, very round woman standing to one side. She had brilliant red hair pulled into a tight braid, with a wide yellow-white streak from her left temple along the length of the braid, which was wound into a bun. "Then you and your maid may follow Peg abovestairs."



Peg was at least two score years and had a motherly attitude that cloaked her like a comfortable cape. She gave a brief curtsey and waved the women behind her.



At the top of the stone steps was a balcony over which Madelyne could look down and see into the hall, and she paused for a short moment to do so. Then, gathering the skirt of her habit, she hurried to catch up with Peg and Tricky.



"My lady, this shall be your chamber whilst you are here." Peg threw open a door that led to a small but well-appointed room. "My lord sent a messenger on to announce your presence, an' we all hastened to make ready for you, just as we did the time his lordship's cousin came to visit when the leaves were ust turning gold and brown...or, alack, was it my lord's mother's sister that time?...now I shall have to ask Robena on that, for I fear my memory gets a bit slow now and again." Her rambling commentary was as welcome as the small fire that warmed the room, chill even in the midst of summer, and the large wooden tub that sat next to the hearth.



Madelyne stepped into the room just in time to avoid being sloshed by a pail of steaming water carried by a serf. She stood back and watched as a line of servants brought more and more pails, filling the tub, and leaving several more pails filled with hot and cold water to adjust the temperature.



Peg bustled over to the tub and, opening a small jar, poured dried flowers and herbs into the water. Then, she stood expectantly, her pudgy hands folded, and with a start, Madelyne realized she was waiting to assist her in disrobing. "Oh, nay, I do not-"



"We shall help you to bathe, my lady," Patricka said firmly, nodding at Peg. 'Twas as though some private message had passed between them, and before Madelyne could allow her modesty to rule, they advanced upon her and began to assist her out of her habit.



"Lord Mal Verne sent some of Lady Mal Verne's clothing for you to wear," Peg explained as Madelyne stepped into the tub. "Packed as 'twere in those oaken trunks, I shook out the wrinkles when I heard that you'd be in need of them. 'Twill be quite a relief from this plain gown and veil of yours, my lady, if you don't mind my saying so."



Madelyne did not know whether 'twas the sudden heat of the water or the notion that Mal Verne was married that caused her to gasp, but she ignored the sudden, inexplicable sinking of her heart and lowered herself into the rose-scented tub.



She looked over at Peg, who was chatting on as she showed Tricky several gowns of brilliant, jewel colors. At the least, she thought wryly, Mal Verne provided well for his wife. Even from her perch in the tub, she could tell the quality of the cloth and the intricacy of the embroidery.



She wondered, suddenly, if Lady Mal Verne, at least, was able to soften the harshness in his face and demeanor.



"Methinks this blue for the undertunic," Tricky was saying as she eyed Madelyne and then the cloth, and back again.



"You are well thought," nodded Peg, her jowls jiggling. "With her hair of such dark color, and her eyes like a pale moon-aye, she makes me think of mine own sister, whose hair was so long and thick as mine is. And my own auntie, well, 'twas her pride and joy this hair of our family, and when she had the ague, she must had it cut and how she bewailed that fate for days!"



The two women huddled together for a moment, throwing occasional glances over their shoulders at Madelyne. Tricky's arms gesticulated wildly, punctuating her bobbing head, and Peg nodded and murmured, nodded and tsked, and expounded on her reactions with rambling sentences of family anecdotes.



Madelyne, a bit discomfited with what she deemed as a conspiracy against her, sank into the tub and attempted to block out the two women and their chatter. A faint, wry smile did curve her face as she succumbed to the realization that Tricky had found her mentor, and that she, Madelyne, would likely be the pawn in her learning game.



The scent of roses filled her nose, for the first time ever not related to the duties of making rose beads. And, as if she was smelling it for the first time, Madelyne inhaled and closed her eyes, enjoying the sweetness of the floral scent. The steaming water was heavenly, such that she paused for a moment-albeit a brief one-to thank God for her safe arrival, and to contemplate whether 'twas a sin that she should enjoy such an earthly pleasure. Baths, although available at the abbey, were only occasional and never this warm and sweet. Most often they were a dip in the nearby stream, or a few hands of lukewarm water.



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."