Sanctuary of Roses (25 page)

Eleanor drained her goblet. “My solar is
abuzz with the rumors that John of Kilharten plies for her suit,
while Reginald D’Orrais appears to have the favor of all, including
the lady herself.”

Henry whirled, his overtunic spinning from
his body like the petals of a flower. “And you—madame…who is your
favorite to wed with the woman who would be a nun?”

“Reginald is a fine man—if a bit young, but
fine enough for the likes of Madelyne. She will give him no
trouble, and he is smart enough to keep her from the hands of her
father.”

“Gavin? Do you have a thought on this or
will you continue to stare blankly at your hands while we make the
decision?”

“I had not given D’Orrais much thought, my
liege. As her majesty says, he is young…but smarter than Kilharten,
who cannot tell his hand from his foot in the dark. Still, D’Orrais
has little experience with a large fief such as Tricourten, and may
not have the ability to keep it producing the rents you are
accustomed to.” Gavin knew that attacking the king’s coffers was
the most effective way to sway his opinion.

“Aye. Hmmm…well, you must make an
assessment. I have too many other burdens to see to. I cannot
bother myself much longer with this trite situation. Make a
recommendation by three days hence, or I will make it easy and give
the nun to D’Orrais. He isn’t a bad choice—’tis your task to see
that he is the best choice. Unless you find a compelling reason not
to select him, ’twill be D’Orrais.”

Henry looked pointedly at the chamber door.
“You may leave us now.”

Gavin bowed to the king, then for the queen,
and took his leave.

The hall was dark—it was well past
midnight—and he wended his way back toward the chamber set aside
for several of the nobles such as himself.

Reginald D’Orrais…’t could be worse, had the
king leaned toward Kilharten, or any of the other lascivious or
stupid men who made up the court. At the least, D’Orrais was gentle
with his horses—something that was a sure indication of his
propensity toward others. And he was not stone dumb.

Madelyne appeared to have some fondness for
the man. He seemed always to be at her side…and had even escorted
her to her chamber on two occasions, as Jube and Rohan had
reported. Gavin supposed he would be considered handsome to a young
maid such as Madelyne—most especially to one who had had little
interaction with men due to her days in the abbey.

He rounded the last corner, thinking little
about where he was going, but focusing his attention on what could
be wrong with D’Orrais—and why he would not be a prime choice for
Madelyne—and hurtled straight into a warm, soft person.

“Lord Gavin,” murmured a familiar voice.
“What a pleasant surprise.”

“Therese?” he responded, refocusing his
thoughts. “What are you doing out of your chamber at such an
hour?”

She placed her hand on his arm, smoothing it
up toward his shoulder. “I had hoped you would return this evening
that we might have some moments to…talk.”

“Talk?” Gavin repeated in confusion. Then,
her very insistent hand moved over his chest and, tugging his arm,
propelled him toward her.

“Nay, you are correct. Talk is not what I
would prefer from you,” she murmured, pressing her lips against
his.

It was a testament to his confusion and
distraction that Gavin did not feel the weight of the eyes staring
from behind him as Therese pulled him into a dark alcove.

* * *

“There! ’Tis off through that
underbrush!”

Gavin bent low over Rule’s neck as the
destrier thrashed through bushes and bramble in the wake of the
dogs and a wild boar that was now their quarry. Thomas’s mount
nosed up beside his, and he could hear the crashing of the others
just behind them.

Gripping his lance tightly, Gavin shouted,
“I’m to the left!” and Rule veered off toward that direction in
response to the pressure of his thighs. A low-hanging branch
whipped toward him, and Gavin ducked in time to feel only the
scrape of twigs over his bare head. Wearing a helm during a hunt
was uncomfortable, but distaining one left a man vulnerable to
being toppled from a mount or having a scratched face.

Gavin rose slightly in his saddle as Rule
pounded through the wood, the stallion relishing the chase as much
as his master. The baying of the hounds echoed shrilly in the air,
and he saw the dark rump of the boar as it leapt over a small
creek.

Some of the others in the party had split
off to follow Gavin, while the main group continued on in the
boar’s path. “There! Again!” shouted Lord Ferrell, coming up from
behind.

“Aye!” Gavin gave a short wave, bending low
in the saddle, and feeling the exhilaration surge through him. Even
if he didn’t get a shot at the boar, the thrill of the ride and the
wild danger was enough to satisfy him.

Ferrell’s horse took a leap over a small
bush and dashed ahead of Gavin and Rule, its rider throwing a
white-toothed grin as they passed. “First!” he called back, letting
Gavin know that he would take the initial shot and his friend
should be prepared to follow with a second.

“Go!” Gavin shouted. He didn’t need to kick
Rule to urge the horse faster. They were bounding over fallen trees
and between thin saplings at breakneck speed. Green and brown blurs
passed on each side, broken only by splashes of bright sunshine
where it streamed down into the forest in erratic patterns.

The hunt was dangerous—most especially for
those in the lead, and even more so when it was a cornered boar
they sought. Riding at top speed, dodging the pitfalls of a forest,
and clutching a lance at the same time made it as hazardous as
fighting a battle. The boar itself could be erratic and fast, and
Gavin had seen more than one fatal swipe of a horn gouge man,
horse, or dog.

The cry of the hounds grew more urgent, and
he knew that the boar had been cornered. Shifting his lance, Gavin
stood again in his saddle as Rule careened toward the noise and the
scent of fear.

Just as Rule, nostrils flaring and breath
streaming in hard pants that matched Gavin’s own zeal, leapt over a
fallen log, Gavin felt his left leg give way. In an instant, the
world tilted and he was falling, rolling, crashing, out of control.
A shout registered in his tumbled mind, pain seared along the
shoulder and arm on which he’d landed, and a high-pitched squeal
that meant danger to his ears shocked him to continue rolling back
to his feet.

Dizzy, out of breath, Gavin groped for
support at the log over which Rule had leapt and found himself
facing a red-eyed, well-horned black boar. His fingers closed
reflexively, but the lance was long gone during his tumble, and the
boar was already charging.

Shouts and the thudding of hooves penetrated
his mind as Gavin reached for a heavy stick. He swung at the
tiny-eyed, black-bristled face as it barreled toward him. He
connected with the flat nose that was close enough he could see
water dripping from it, and an enraged squeal rent the air as Gavin
stumbled away from its flailing hooves and overpowering stench.

Just as he hauled himself upright, another
shout and a shriek of rage echoed in the clearing…followed by a
second shriek that became almost a moan at the end. Thomas rode up
at that moment, tossing Rule’s reins to Gavin. “Are you hurt?” he
asked as his friend heaved into the saddle.

“Nay,” Gavin replied, breathless, as he
gathered his wits about him enough to look at the scene before him.
The boar lay on his side, shuddering its last breath, with three
lances piercing its hide. The dogs sniffed eagerly, and were being
called back by the masters even as the hunters clustered in more
closely.

“What a fall!” Ferrell loped over on his
mount. “What happened?”

Gavin suddenly remembered and slid off his
saddle. “I felt the stirrup give way as Rule jumped,” he told them,
and held up the broken leather stirrup. “If I had not been standing
for the leap, I’d likely have kept my seat,” he frowned. “But it
could not have broken on its own.”

“Could you have sliced it with your lance?”
asked Lord Michael d’Gloetherin.

“What fool do you think I am?” he snapped,
suddenly feeling the pain in his shoulder and arm. “I manage my
weapons and would not make such a foolish mistake. And, if I’d been
so careless, or someone else had been close enough to be so, would
not Rule have been cut as well?”

“Aye. And you have great care for your
saddle and Rule,” Thomas added gravely. His eyes met Gavin’s and
their suspicions mirrored each other. Fantin.

King Henry rode up at that moment. “Mal
Verne—are you hurt? I did not see the fall, but I am told ’twas
most magnificent.” His infectious smile flashed as he saw that
Gavin was unhurt.

“Though I would not wish to repeat it, I
would agree that it would be hard to match it ever again.” Gavin
grunted in pain as Thomas jostled close enough to touch his
shoulder. “I’ll have some care to my arm when we return, but it
does not pain me overmuch. Shall we ride on?”

“Nay. We return. The others found two deer
and a wild pig, so we are in need of no more,” replied another
hunter.

Gavin would not have admitted it aloud, but
he was thankful for the reason to return to the castle sooner
rather than later. Now that his energy had ebbed and they rode
along at a much less dangerous pace, the throbbing in his shoulder
increased enough to make him grit his teeth and keep his
conversation to a minimum.

A sudden thought bloomed in his mind,
soothing his discomfort: he would return and seek out Madelyne to
care for his hurt.

In the past, when he’d received small
injuries, he would have squirreled out one of the king’s squires or
pages who could plaster on a paste of putrid herbs and wrap his
injury—as would any other man injured in such a way. But now, he
would impose upon her to see to his needs.

Her long, narrow fingers would smooth on
some paste that likely smelled awful but cooled and appeased the
injury. She’d wrap it gently and mayhap offer him a tea or infusion
to drink to ease him in his sleep. And he’d think, yet again, of
her as a calm, quiet Madonna…and smell the scent of her as she bent
to him…and feel the warm heaviness of her touch….

The clattering of hooves across the wooden
bridge leading to Whitehall pulled Gavin from those oddly
disturbing thoughts, and the proximity to the woman in question
brought upon more disconcerting ones. What if she didn’t want to
take care of him? She was not obliged, and he had no right to ask
it of her. He shouldn’t ask it of her. She owed him nothing and
soon she would belong to Reginald D’Orrais.

The frown settling between his brows must
have been a fierce one, for Thomas trotted over and said, “It
appears that you are in more pain than you displayed in the wood.
Allow me to have Rule brushed down and stabled for you. Seek you
help in taking care of your injuries.”

“I’m fine,” Gavin replied gruffly, sliding
down from his saddle. Clem appeared and ’twas with great relief
that he handed the bridle to him. “Thomas, you have enough to do.
Clem can take care of Rule for me.” He looked at his man. “Do you
know where Madelyne is? I have a need to speak with her.”

Clem shifted as he fought to keep Rule from
storming toward the stables. “I believe she is in the orchard
garden. At the least, ’tis what her maid told me when I last saw
the harpy some half hour past.”

Gavin forbore to acknowledge his man’s
uncharacteristically caustic comment. Instead, he gave Rule a last
pat of thanks for being so beautifully sure-footed, and said, “My
thanks Clem. I’ll be off to locate Lady Madelyne.”

Though he started off with alacrity, Gavin
slowed his footsteps as he approached what was known as the orchard
garden. What fool was he that he should impose upon her—even that
it should occur to him to seek her out to care for his needs?
Indeed, why had it been such a natural, unconscious thought that he
would go to her? She owed him naught but disdain, and, in truth, he
was beholden to care for
her
far more than she would be
answerable to
his
well-being.

Gavin’s steps faltered as he found himself
entering the garden—which was, in reality, more of a grove of trees
and benches than any true orchard. She would be sitting with
Judith, mayhap, and some other ladies who did not hunt, and he
would thus approach like a young boy with a scraped knee.

Distaste filled his mouth and he whirled
abruptly to leave. He would seek comfort from some other lady who
might care to deliver it. He thought fleetingly of Lady Therese,
who had kissed him well and soundly in the alcove the evening
before…but then decided he preferred to find a squire taught in
easing war wounds instead.

He’d taken two more steps back out of the
garden when he heard his name called behind him. Cursing under his
breath, he turned back to see Judith hailing him from near an apple
tree.

“Gavin! Are you hurt?” she asked, reaching
to touch his arm.

“Nay…only a small injury,” he told her,
glancing beyond her shoulder to see if Madelyne followed. Dirt and
blood must have dried on his face for Judith to have guessed at his
accident.

“If you seek Madelyne,” Judith spoke,
reading his mind, “she sits back under the pear tree.”

“Nay, I…we just returned from the hunt, and
I am dirty and wet.” He turned to go, realizing how filthy and
sweaty he must be.

“She sits with Reginald D’Orrais,” added
Judith casually. “All the court knows that he is to be named her
betrothed on the morrow.”

Gavin looked at her, but she had turned to
wave to another lady-in-waiting who hurried past the garden gate
toward the castle. Judith looked back at him. “I must go, for I am
promised to the queen now that she has returned from the hunt.” She
hurried off, leaving him to stare after her with an angry
tightening in his belly.