Sanctuary of Roses

by Colleen Gleason

Chapter Two

  The darkness of fear slithered through her, constricting the breath in her throat.

  He held something long and thin, and it glinted in the firelight that tossed shadows over her mother's terrified face. The words that spewed from his spittle-flecked lips stabbed at her with their evilness, causing her to draw her knees closer to her chest as she huddled in the corner.

  Screams echoed in the chamber where firelight danced happily as they endured his madness. Strange symbols that were carved into the stone floor melded into each other as the darkness and fear descended again, and again. . . and again.

  No one could hear their screams, nor their cries for mercy.

  Straps of leather. . . foul-smelling potions. . . the shrieks of a hooded hawk as it was denuded of its feathers. . . the crisp acridity of burning flesh. . . his laugh, smooth and low like the sound of far-off thunder. . . .

  Madelyne dragged her eyes open and pushed away the dream, reaching blindly for her prayer beads. The darkness of the nightmare hovered at the edge of her mind, and she frantically sought the words to keep it at bay. Ave Maria, gratia plena. . . .

  She mumbled the words automatically, inhaling the sweet, faded scent of roses from the beads. Slowly, the fear subsided and she became aware of the familiar surroundings of her cell in the abbey.

  The barest hint of light speared the darkness, chasing away her dreams, giving shape to the forms of her trunk and the three-legged stool. A faint outline of the cross woven of willow branches hanging above the door, and the shape of the small tapestry that covered part of the opposite wall, comforted her.

  Dawn was near, and Madelyne knew she wouldn't sleep again this night. Still shaken from the fierceness of her memory, she slipped slowly from her bed. Clad only in a fine linen chemise, she splashed water on her face from a low-sided bowl, and chewed on a sprig of mint. Her novitiate's habit, also made of well-woven linen, was naught but a simple, dark dress and an enveloping wimple that covered the two thick braids she wore.

  Since she was awake, she'd see how her patients were faring, and relieve Sister Nellen from her night watch early. Tucking the beads into the hidden pocket of her gown, created solely for that reason, Madelyne left her cell and paced easily down the hall to the main entrance to the abbey.

  Outside, the summer night was drawing to a close, and the gray of pre-dawn surrendered to the pale yellow of early morning. A thick scent of roses hung on the air, along with that of the rain that had passed through last eve.

  Despite the fact that the forest crowded the walls of Lock Rose Abbey, within those walls 'twas as sunny and open as the King's Meadow. Gardens grew heartily, and the space was plentiful so that its inhabitants did not regret their lack of access to the outside.

  She was so happy within those walls that rarely did Madelyne wonder what it would be like to be out of them.

  In the infirmary, Sister Nellen had just finished changing the poultice on one of the injured men's arms. She looked up as Madelyne slipped through the door, her brown-spotted face creasing with wrinkles of welcome.

  "Good morrow, Sister Madelyne," she greeted her in a low, raspy voice. "You are early, but 'tis good, as I am weary and wish to sleep a bit before the Mass. All is quiet. "

  "The fever has not come?" Madelyne looked toward the pallet of a man who stirred restlessly.

  "Nay yet. He bears watching," Nellen stabbed an arthritic finger at him, "but there is no sign yet. "

  All of the men slept still, and when Nellen left, Madelyne wandered among the pallets to see to her patients, curious and fearful all at once. These men were fighting men-built strong and sturdy, with wounds and gashes, scars and swords. They lived death everyday, and she shuddered deep within herself at the thought.

  She would never know the world in which they lived-that world of anger and battles and bloodshed, of greed and politics-nor did she wish to know it. Her life was promised to God in devotion for keeping her safe from the wrath of her father.

  Madelyne paused beside their leader, the Lord of Mal Verne, and was drawn to look closely at his face. 'Twas not a handsome one, in truth, but one filled with hardness, pain, and determination. Deep lines cut through his cheeks--not scars, nay, but lines of weariness and character. His brows were thick and dark, above deep-set eyes that lay closed in repose.

  Madelyne saw the dark brush of stubble over his cheeks and around the square chin that jutted even in sleep. He sighed and shifted, his mouth moving in a silent comment, firming and then relaxing. She nearly touched it, that most beautiful part of him, but kept her hands tucked into her sleeves.

  So odd, that feeling sweeping through her as she looked down upon him.

  Madelyne turned away as the knight called John mumbled and rolled over, thumping his hand against the wall. Not one given to fancies or daydreams, Madelyne was grateful for the interruption of her inspection of Lord Mal Verne. She did not care for the tingle that started in her fingers when she'd thought to touch his lips.

  After seeing that John had not injured his hand other than the scrape of knuckles over a stone wall, Madelyne busied herself chopping herbs for other treatments.

  Some time later, when she turned away from the old wooden table, she saw that Lord Mal Verne had wakened. He sat partially inclined on the rough straw pallet, watching her with cool gray eyes.

  "Good morrow," she greeted him calmly, 'though she felt a bit disconcerted that he'd been staring at her. "Does your side pain you?"

  He shook his head briefly. "Nay, no more than any other hurt I've had. " His gaze skimmed over the other men resting on their pallets, then returned to her. "The others?"

  Madelyne nodded. "All are well. Most should be out of bed within a day. " She added water to a shallow bowl filled with finely chopped bruisewort leaves and stirred it with a flat, wooden spoon. She would add dried woad and the paste would be used in his poultice. "I must look at your wound, and change the wrappings. "

  He grunted what she assumed was an assent, though it wouldn't have mattered to her if he hadn't-the poultice had to be changed. He rolled to one side and she stuffed a lumpy pillow behind his back to help him hold the position.

  Working deftly, she pulled up the woolen tunic one of the sisters had found for him, exposing the neat linen bandage. Beneath, the clean slice through his flesh was an angry red line with a careful row of stitches crossing over it. Blood oozed slowly from the upper edge, but other than that, the wound had congealed and was not puffed with bad humors. Pressing it gently, she asked, "Does it pain you?"

  "Nay. "

  Madelyne clicked her tongue absently as she pressed the cut to be certain more blood did not come forth. Then, with a flat, wooden utensil, she spread the warm, sticky mass of herbs over the wound.

  Some of the pungent paste slid down his side, over bronzed skin decorated with other, healed, wounds, into the thick, dark hair that grew over his abdomen. She tried to catch it with the spoon, but it matted into the coarse hair and clung there. With a frown, Madelyne finished covering the wound with the plaster, then lightly pressed a clean cloth over it.

  "Do you not move," she told him, turning to get a damp rag. She felt him watch her, silently and steadily, as she brought back the dripping cloth, and was again conscious of the steeliness of his unwavering gray eyes.

  "Ere I first saw you, I believed I had died and thought you to be the Madonna," he spoke, breaking the silence.

  Madelyne glanced at him, a wry smile hovering at the corners of her lips. "And now, my lord?" She looked down, using the cloth to wipe away at the paste that had gathered in the hair on his stomach. His skin was warm and the ridges of muscle in his middle were smooth and hard under the cloth. When her hand brushed over bare skin, that tingle that had started in her fingertips returned. Her mouth went dry. The texture of another's flesh had never felt so warm, so soft and hard all at once. . . 'twas foreign and stirring and she felt odd.

  "Now? Now
I wonder why one as fair as you would choose the cloistered life. "

  She jerked her attention from the sensation of touching his skin, raising her gaze to be caught and held by his. Pulling the cloth from his skin, she looked away and her scattered thoughts returned to order. "The freedom that we enjoy is not to be had anywhere but in an abbey. "

  "Behind stone walls you find freedom?" The derision showed in his face.

  Madelyne turned away to retrieve clean wrappings, and when she came back to his side, she braced herself to look directly into those stone gray eyes. "Freedom from death and warfare, aye-freedom from the life you live all the day. And we have also the freedom to learn, to read and to write, to study. . . and freedom from the men who would rule our lives. " Even as the tart words came from her mouth, she regretted them. She felt suddenly that if she spoke of the liberties allowed monastic women, they'd be taken away all that quickly.

  He was silent for a moment, measuring her with his eyes, as her words hung between them. When he spoke at last, his tone was flat and scornful. "The good sisters have taught you well. Have you been here since birth, then? A youngest daughter sent with a dowry to the Church to ensure that her father will find his way to heaven?"

  "I've been here long enough to know that I've more freedom behind these walls than not. I would never leave here. " Unsurprised that he, a man, should not understand why she chose her life, Madelyne turned back to her work table. "Rest you now. "

  They would be leaving anon.

  Mayhaps he would miss the serenity of the abbey, Gavin thought wryly as he sat on a large rock in the bailey. More like, he would forget it as soon as he rode without its walls.

  He must return to the world, to the blackness of his vengeance upon Fantin de Belgrume. . . to the bleakness that awaited him, and to the anger that had become so much a part of him. No one waited for him without these walls, not even Judith-though his life had become naught but a tool to avenge her pain. Gavin would see her-and, yes, himself-vindicated, and then. . . aye, then he would happily succumb to the hand of death if he were so called.

  A presence eased into his consciousness just as its person moved: gracefully, calmly. Gavin turned and looked up into the face of the nun he still thought of as the Madonna.

  "You are well enough to ride," she commented in her low, quiet voice. "I've brought you a last draught to sip ere you leave. "

  She handed him a silver cup, engraved with likenesses of the roses that grew throughout the abbey. The sleeve of her habit slid back from her hand, exposing a slim, white wrist. A trio of freckles formed a small triangle on the delicate, blue-veined skin and he caught her fingers before she withdrew, turning her hand to look at them.

  "Unusual. " He looked up into her startled moonstone eyes. With a finger, he traced the three beauty marks, trying to recall why such a marking was familiar. Her flesh was smooth, and softer than anything he'd touched in many a moon. He felt the thrumming of her pulse under his thumb.

  Sister Madelyne pulled her hand away with a firmness belied by the decorum of her movements and looked pointedly at his cup. "Do you drink that I may return the cup to the infirmary. "

  Gavin obliged, suddenly anxious to be on his way-away from the tempting tranquility of the abbey, and away from this woman whose inner peace caused her to be more beautiful than was right. The liquid tasted bitter, with an aftertaste of wood-but 'twas no worse than any other concoction she'd foisted upon him during his convalescence. He took three large gulps, then rested his tongue from the rank taste. The nun watched him, her hands folded at her waist, and he noticed a small rope of beads dangling from one wrist.

  He peered at the black beads, then looked questioningly at her. "A necklet for a nun?" He was not quite able to keep the irony from his voice.

  She looked down, then slipped the rope over her hand and proffered it to him. "My lord, 'tis only my prayer beads. "

  He took them, fingering the awkwardly-shaped nodules. They were made of some rough black material, and a faint scent of roses clung to them. When he raised his head to look questioningly at her, he felt a momentary dizziness that evaporated when their gazes met. "How did you come by these beads?" he asked, his tongue suddenly thick. "How are they made?"

  "They are formed from rose petals," she told him. "I made them when I first came to the abbey. " Her brows drew together. "How do you feel?"

  Gavin blinked, feeling the dizziness once again. "I am well," he lied, trying to focus on the beads he still clutched in his hands. "How can one make beads from flowers?"

  Her voice came from afar. "The petals are stewed for hours over a low flame. " She leaned closer, her presence surrounding him, and he felt rather than saw her fingers brush over his forehead and into his hair. "Do you feel light of head, my lord?"

  "Nay," he forced the words from his lips even as shadows dimmed the edges of his vision.

  "God be with you," he heard that calm voice say as he slipped into nothingness.