Sanctuary of Roses (32 page)

But he could not keep his mind clear, and
the bile gathered in the back of his throat. He retched in the
corner, sagging against the wall, pushing his fingers into his eyes
to keep the tears at bay.

* * *

Clem and Jube had to take the time to gather
their things and collect the other men-at-arms from Gavin’s
retinue, and then they were off to Tricourten.

They traveled quickly, with one wagon
carrying some basic supplies…and for transportation for Lady
Madelyne, should they need it. The wagon would not keep their pace,
but for the first leg of the trip, it would stay within a short
distance.

When they stopped the first night, the wagon
rolled into their camp only an hour after the men had dismounted.
Clem and Jube sat with Thomas, Peter, Antoine, and three others
around a fire on which a rabbit roasted. As he poked the meat with
a stick to determine whether it was cooked, Clem saw an unfamiliar
shadow emerge from the back of the wagon.

Bolting to his feet, he started toward it.
“Who goes there?” he shouted, then stopped in his tracks as he
recognized the deliciously plump figure of Patricka.

“’Tis I.” She stepped from the shadows,
planting her hands on her hips, and Clem felt a wave of disbelief
wash over him.

“What in the bloody hell are you doing
here?” he stomped toward her, wanting nothing more than to wrap his
hands around her neck…and squeeze.

“I want to help. I may need to care for
Maddie…” her voice wavered, but she continued. “We do not know how
she will be when we find her…and I couldn’t wait at Whitehall to
hear from you. I won’t be in your way, and I can help.” Her hands
remained on her hips and her chin thrust in the air.

“Woman, you are the most foolish, addlepated
female I have ever met! You cannot go with us! You will return to
Whitehall immediately!” He stuck his hands on his hips and thrust
his chin in her direction.

Tricky stepped toward him, seeming to be
unaware of the other men crowding around, watching the display.
“And how will I get there? You cannot take me back, and I cannot go
on my own. I will have to go with you, and Clem,” as she spoke, her
brown eyes grew wide, gleaming earnestly in the moonlight. “I will
be no trouble! I won’t slow you down, and I’ll do as you say…but I
must go. Please! I beg you.”

Clem’s tongue thickened in his mouth and he
could not speak. His insides had melted into a puddle, and he was
alternately desirous of paddling the wench and tearing off her
clothes. But of course, he could do neither. The blasted woman
loved Jube.

Instead, he swallowed, coughed, and, when he
heard a snicker behind him, turned to glare at the man who dared do
so. “All right.” His words, gruff and short, were all that he said
before swinging around to take his place by the fire.

* * *

At last, Gavin heard the sound of voices
approaching. He prayed that it was the king…and his prayers were
answered as the robust figure of Henry Plantagenet came around the
corner.

“What is it that ails you, Mal Verne?” Henry
bellowed, coming face to face with Gavin, with only the bars
betwixt them. “You have been shouting the walls down here and
nearly sent my guard to an early grave.”

“’Tis Madelyne—she is gone, she’s been taken
by her father. You must release me and allow me to rescue her.”
Gavin strained against the bars again, bringing his face breath to
breath with his liege lord.

“Fantin has Madelyne? How can that be? Did
you not make arrangements for her to be guarded—”

“By
God
, man
,
” Gavin breathed
sharp and short, his teeth tight. “You know that I would not
neglect such a thing! ’Twas one of my men who has betrayed me…and I
believe ’t has been him all this time, reporting to Fantin, that
has enable him to best me so many times! ’Twas he—it has to be—who
put the poison on the necklet! Now he has absconded with my wife
and I must go after her!” He sagged against the bars, the cold
metal a relief against his hot face. “Please, my liege, as I have
served you well…please release me….”

Henry stepped away from the bars. “Release
the man,” he told the guard, watching impassively as Gavin
straightened eagerly. “Go with God, Gavin…and this time, do you not
return without de Belgrume’s head on a platter.”

* * *

Had he not been on such an urgent mission,
Gavin would have reveled in the freedom of charging down the road
on his mount’s back. As it was, he had no pleasure in the moment.
From the instant the bars opened on the door to his cell, Gavin had
been in motion, frenetic and frantic.

Early the morning following his release—by
his count, two days since Madelyne had been taken—Gavin overtook
his men and their party. They were only hours from Tricourten
Keep.

He barely registered the presence of the
woman in the group, the maid Tricky, except to speak sharply to
Clem to keep her out of his way, and then dismissing her from his
mind. His focus, his life, his every breath was pinpointed upon
arriving at Tricourten and finding a way inside the keep.

Gavin kept his mind from considering what he
might find when they gained entrance. He could let nothing distract
him from his goal of getting there, and finding Madelyne…and
treating Fantin to a slow, painful death.

Twenty-Seven

Madelyne’s throat was dry, but she dared not
ask for water. She swallowed, again, wishing for just a drop of
something for her parched mouth.

She’d arrived at Tricourten only a day
before, but the hours that had passed since had been of such
nighmarish quality that she dared not think on them. Instead, she
allowed her head to fall back against the stone wall to which her
wrists were chained. Her arms ached, extended as they were, and her
fingers and feet had no sensation.

Bruises from the rough handling during her
abduction and subsequent travel thudded painfully whenever she
moved. The memory of her father’s fingers fastened around her neck,
thumbs pressing into the soft underpart of her jaw until she
swooned, caused panic to rush anew through her veins.

Now, she watched fearfully as Fantin and his
assistant Tavis, along with a pale priest, sat at a long, rough
table in the underground laboratory at Tricourten. She had vague
memories of this room from her childhood, prompted by the
nauseating smells and evil-looking devices scattered
throughout.

She saw the way her father’s fingers opened
and closed, opened and closed, like the mouth of a beached fish.
“She will serve God here, with me. But she cannot do that if he has
touched her and got her with child!”

“You must wait,” the priest said to her
father, his voice soothing. “All may not be lost. If she is not
breeding yet, she can once again attain her pure state.”

Fantin looked at her, and the expression in
his eyes made her stomach heave. ’Twas not one of anger or
evil…’twas one beaming with love—the love of a father. A
mad
father.

Prickles raced up her spine, covering her
shoulders like a nasty cloak. “Aye…after we have exorcised every
bit of Mal Verne’s touch, and all thought of disobedience, she will
be better prepared to serve.”

Madelyne’s stomach tilted. He referred to
the day before when he’d beaten her with his hand and a thin
leather whip until she collapsed on the floor, all bravado and
strength disintegrating into blood and tears. She swallowed again,
and closed her eyes against the tears.
Gavin.
She couldn’t
control the shaking of her body. It trembled against the cold,
rough wall.

“Think, my lord,” Tavis was telling her
father. “She has been wed with Mal Verne for less than a
fortnight…’tis only slightly possible that she carries his child.
She may know the answer now.”

Fantin swiveled toward Madelyne, his long
face taut and white. “Do you carry that man’s child?”

She could not speak. The words would not
form. Madelyne tried to respond, but nothing came from her mouth.
Fantin surged out of his chair and stalked over to her. Planting a
hand on either side of her head, he stared into her eyes…and what
she saw there was enough to make her light-headed with terror. They
were empty: cold, blue, steel…
empty
…with tiny black
pinpoints in the center.

“Do—you—carry—Mal—Verne’s—child,” he
breathed, his stale, wine-tainted breath washing over her face.
“Answer me, Madelyne, or I will pull that devil’s child from you!”
Quick as a flash, he brandished a thin, shining hook, waving it
unsteadily under her nose.

“I do not know,” she croaked, forcing the
words from her trembling lips. “’Tis possible.”

Fantin’s shriek rang in her ears, and she
instinctively ducked as he pivoted away from her. His hands slammed
onto the table in rage, then wooden bowls and metal goblets tumbled
to the floor as he swept his hand across them, knocking them awry.
“Now what shall I do?” he howled, picking up a mortar and pestle
and pitching them wildly toward her.

Madelyne did not move in time, and the
wooden bowl struck her in the shoulder.

“Master, master….” Tavis’s voice somehow
reached through Fantin’s insanity and served to redirect the man’s
anger. “We will simply wait until she has had her courses…and then
you will know that she is ready for you. And if she does not have
them in one moon’s time….” he cast a sly look at Madelyne, trapping
her eyes with his, “we shall rid her of the bastard’s babe and then
you might be assured she is pure once again.”

“And then, when she is whole again,
wholesome, she will devote herself to my work—praying and fasting
in the name of God. She will be my link to the Father, and with
her, I will find the answer.”

Darkness, thankfully, washed over her and
Madelyne slid into oblivion.

When she opened her eyes some time later, a
man’s face—one vaguely familiar—hovered near hers. As some of the
cloudiness drifted from her gaze, and her mind began to focus, she
realized that she was prone, on her back, and her arms, though
still restrained, were not stretched as taut as they’d been.

The man brought a cup to her mouth and
water—cold, heavenly, life-giving water—dripped between her lips.
Her tongue slipped out to capture drops of it, and he tilted the
cup so that it flowed more freely.

“Madelyne,” said the man—an older man, of an
age with her father, “I’m here to help you.” He had red hair
streaked with white, and calm gray eyes.

She tried to shake her head, but black spots
danced before her eyes and she was forced to close them. It was an
effort, but she forced a wan smile.

“You do not remember me…but your mother knew
me well. I am Seton de Masin.”

When he spoke, the remembrance renewed
itself in her mind. Seton: the man who’d allowed them to escape
Tricourten during his night watch. The man who’d kissed her mother
with more than a chaste wish of peace. The man who’d come to the
abbey in search of them all those years ago…and who duly reported
to Fantin that they were not there.

“I cannot free you yet,” he spoke quietly.
“Fantin trusts me, and I must wait until the right moment. But I
will do what I can to keep them from harming you further. I’ve sent
word to Whitehall that you’re here.”

She tried to speak, to ask why…and he must
have understood.

“As yet, I have no way to get you out of
here…it will take a bit of planning. I have waited many years for a
moment such as this, for I knew it would come. Though I always
thought your mother would be the one in danger. Please, Madelyne,
try to be brave for another short time…I will never be far from
you…and I will get you free as soon as I can.”

She closed her eyes, hope beginning to
billow within. “Gavin,” she managed to say. “My husband…he will
come….”

Seton was already nodding. “Aye, I know. I
have sent the message to him at Whitehall… But your Mal Verne is a
wise man, and ’tis likely he already knows you are here.”

Madelyne remembered suddenly that Gavin was
not free to come and go….and despair washed over her. But she
pushed it away. Seton was there to help…he had helped her mother
before, and he would help her now. She made her mouth into a smile,
and then drifted back into darkness.

* * *

Camped just out of sight of Tricourten’s
guards, Gavin, his men, and Tricky conferred in the wood. They
didn’t need a fire during the day, and at night would keep it very
small so as not to alert the keep-dwellers that they were near.

“Fantin will be expecting us,” Gavin
commented. “We will be unable to gain entrance to the keep except
by stealth. There must be a private entrance…but there is no way to
find out.”

His face felt tight and his eyes burned,
gritty from lack of sleep. He’d barely eaten since leaving
Whitehall—again, thanks to Madelyne for the robust meals she’d
provided for him during his imprisonment, or he would be weaker.
“He’ll have his guards watch for a party of men attempting to come
in…or staying in the village. He likely has scouts set out into the
woods, here, as well, and so we must act before they find us.
’Twill not be an easy task to get into the keep, and I dare not
besiege the place for fear he will escape with Madelyne…or
worse.”

Silence fell over the men as they digested
this information. Their options were limited.

“I’ll go. I’ll go in and find a way to
secure entrance for the rest of you. They don’t expect a woman…and
’twould be simple for me to pass as a serf or villager.”

Gavin stared at the plump little maid. His
first reaction was to dismiss her offer, but the steadfast
earnestness in her eyes gave him pause.

“Nay—you will not,” Clem spoke angrily when
his master did not. “’Tis too dangerous. We will find another way
in.”

Gavin looked from him to Tricky, a faint
stirring in the back of his mind…but he thrust it away. “’Tis a
ripe idea. I’ll go with her,” he said, nodding. “No one will expect
mischief from a traveling husband and his wife—”