Sanctuary of Roses mhg-2

by Колин Глисон

  “Madelyne, can you hear me? Your husband’s man has arrived…he’s in the keep and has been found out.” He glanced at Tricky, who gasped.

  “Clem! They have Clem?” she asked, struggling to loosen her bonds.

  The man strode over to her, glanced at the closed door, then glared down at her. “Who are you and what do you know about this? Speak, woman, for we haven’t much time!”

  “I came here with Clem…we were to find a way in and… ” she stopped, gulping. Was this a trick?

  “What, woman? What is it? If I am to help you, I must know all!” Angry spittle came from his mouth and urgency curved in lines about his lips.

  From the table, Madelyne groaned. “Tricky?” Her voice was barely audible, but her maid heard and understood. “Seton?”

  “Aye, Madelyne.” Seton rushed to her side, stroking her face and offering her a sip of water. “Sweetling, they have one of your husband’s men and will no doubt be scouring the keep for the rest of them. I must get a message to them… ”

  “Tricky…tell him… ” she moaned. “He…can…be trusted. He…can…help.”

  Tricky glanced at Madelyne and then back at the man called Seton, who now stood glowering over her. She had no choice. Clem was taken. They would miss their meeting with Gavin…and this man might be able to help. Madelyne trusted him. “We were to meet Gavin and his men at the oak tree behind the hill on the west side of the keep at sun down,” she told him. “We were to find a way to sneak them into the keep. I know nothing else.”

  Seton nodded. “There are more men. Aye, that is good.” He returned to Madelyne. “What can I tell your husband that he will trust me? I’ll meet him and bring him in. We will get you safe from here tonight.”

  Tricky could hear her mistress’s sigh from her own perch and wished she could minister to her. What had they done to her?

  “Quickly, Madelyne… they will come back at any moment!” He leaned toward her, and although Tricky could not hear what Maddie told him, he pulled back, nodding, and satisfied.

  Just as he turned away, the door from the stairway flung open and in stumbled Clem, arms bound, followed by Fantin and Tavis.

  * * *

  Gavin paced in the wood just in sight of the oak tree, his stomach twisting in nauseating knots. The sun was nearly gone, and no sign of Tricky or Clem. He clenched his fists, knowing that their failure to appear was a sign that something had gone severely wrong.

  The gray shadows were long and just turning to black when he saw the shift of a shadow from the hill beyond the oak tree. It was too slight to be bulky Clem, and much too tall to be Patricka. Gavin clenched his hands over his sword and waited, holding his breath.

  “Mal Verne?” The sound of his name wafting over the cool summer air reached his ears. “I come to help.”

  Gavin did not move. He held his breath again.

  “Mal Verne.” The man moved closer to the oak tree, his hands held out in front of him so that even in the darkness, Gavin could see that he held no weapons. “Your man, Clem, is taken…and the girl is taken as well.” He paused as though to measure any effect his words might have. Gavin remained silent, though he took a silent step forward.

  “I’ve spoken to Madelyne,” the man continued. “My name is Seton de Masin… she knows me from when she was a child… Her message is that you may trust me. You will know this by the words I am now to speak: Madelyne gave you prayer beads made from rose petals when you first came to the abbey, and you still carry them with you. And she means you to know that she loves you.”

  Gavin stepped from the shadows, his suspicions allayed. He had told no one about those beads. Even Madelyne had not known he still carried them until after they were wed and sharing a chamber. “De Masin.” He thrust his hand out and they shook. “She is alive? Is she hurt?”

  De Masin hesitated, and Gavin’s stomach pitched. “She is alive, she can speak, but she is injured. I could not keep them…from her…last night. She will be well if we can get her from that place.”

  Gavin struggled to control the frantic pictures and thoughts in his head. He must focus and stay clear headed if he had any chance of saving her. “Can you get me inside? I will have Fantin’s head on a platter. Nay, he will die a painful death…slow and painful… ”

  “Aye. How many men do you have?”

  “Five, plus myself and my man within.”

  Seton nodded once, then beckoned. “Come, let us go. We have very little time.”

  Twenty-Nine

  Madelyne forced her eyes open.

  The acrid burn of candles, other smells she did not wish to define, and the throb of pain throughout her body assaulted her senses. The taste of the last bitter, putrid liquid that had been forced down her throat still surged in her empty belly. She couln’t keep back a moan, and was rewarded when her father’s face came into focus in front of her own.

  Stifling a shriek, she closed her eyes and turned away from his face, the image now implanted on her brain: empty eyes with tiny pinpoints of black in the center, a wide, grinning mouth, and a mass of white hair as uncontrolled as the joyous laugh that erupted from his lips.

  She was against the wall again, taken from her prone position on the table and re-strapped to the cold stone. The rough edges of the blocks behind her chafed her bruised skin, and her arms, stretched to their limits, had no feeling in them. She could barely keep her head raised, but with an effort she lifted it as Fantin’s laugh stopped abruptly.

  “What is it you say?” He turned and screamed at someone. “That cannot be!”

  Madelyne tried to focus and looked around the room, her muscles cramping, her arms jerking involuntarily. She vaguely remembered speaking with Seton again, and talking of Gavin and her love for him…a sob clogged her throat that had naught to do with the pain in her bones, but the pain in her heart. She might never see her husband again.

  As she looked about the chamber, Madelyne froze, staring in disbelief. Tricky? Dear Lord, how did Tricky come to be here? Her maid was slumped on a stool, her clothing mussed, dirty and torn, and her hair straggling about her.

  Fantin screamed more profanities to some unseen messenger, then, with one last glance at his prisoner, turned to rush from the chamber—his robes flowing behind him. Tricky and Madelyne were alone and safe, for a time, from Fantin’s rage.

  “Tricky!” Madelyne hissed.

  Her maid shook her head as though to clear the fog and slowly turned to look at her. “Maddie,” she whispered. “Are you all right?”

  “I am alive and thankful to be so,” she returned. “And you? How came you here?”

  Tricky explained quickly, and then gestured to a dark corner. “They have Clem over there. I cannot tell if he is hurt. He’s not moved since they hit him on the head.”

  “Can you move on that stool?” Every word was an effort, but Madelyne forced them out. For the first time, she felt a ray of hope that escape might be possible. “Those shards from the broken bowls…mayhap you could cut… ” her voice gave out, the words would not come…but Tricky knew what she meant to say.

  “Aye.” Tricky rocked on the stool, side to side, and managed to tip herself over. She rolled on the floor and Madelyne could not tell if she was successful in grasping a piece of broken crockery. Silence reigned but for the grunts and groans of exertion from her maid.

  The sound of voices and heavy footsteps down the stairs caused Madelyne’s attention to sharpen. “Tricky…they come! Can you right yourself?”

  Gasping, Tricky rolled herself back to where she’d been and struggled to right her stool. The door flung open again, and Fantin and Tavis strode in, arguing.

  Their loud voices, angry and shrill, sent greater shivers up and down Madelyne’s spine. Where was Seton? Was there aught he could do?

  “There is no sign that Mal Verne has entered the keep—he is no where to be found.” Tavis spoke in an urgent tone. “You must concentrate on your work, Master Fantin…your time is so close!”

  H
e flickered a look in Madelyne’s direction, then, as his gaze swept back, it was distracted by the sight of Tricky on the floor, still attached to her stool. He trotted over, standing above her with his hands on his hips. “And where are we going, my little coquette? Surely you do not wish to miss our little demonstration anight?”

  Roughly, he yanked her upright and reached to fondle her breasts. “Ah, such sweet rewards await me!” With a lascivious smile, he turned back to Fantin.

  “Master…no one can enter this keep now without our knowledge. Mal Verne’s one man gained entrance, but if there are others, they will be stopped by the extra guards we have posted. Mal Verne must still be jailed, awaiting trial for attempted murder of the queen.”

  “Aye,” his master chuckled. “Even our king is not so foolish as to allow him loose in the wake of his little gift to that whore.” Fantin appeared to be placated, and he swept over to Madelyne, fluttering his robe dramatically. He reached to touch her face, smoothing his cool hand lovingly along her cheek.

  “Madelyne, dear daughter, feel you ill, or do you feel the strength of your cleanliness returning to you? The potions we have given you are only for your own health. We must eradicate the seed of that bastard Mal Verne if you are to attain your innocence once again.”

  Holding her breath, Madelyne turned her face away, afraid that even the little she knew would be betrayed on her face. God willing, Seton had found a way to bring Gavin’s men into the keep…

  Suddenly, the door to the laboratory burst open, and even through her haze, Madelyne recognized Seton de Masin as he pitched into the room, nearly falling to his knees. Blood smeared his face, and where he held his left arm with his right, more redness colored his fingers and clothing. He was followed by the priest, the white-faced, man with dark circles beneath his eyes. The latter prodded Seton with a sword to the back.

  “Lord Fantin, you have a traitor in your midst,” announced the priest as he stood proudly at the base of the stairs. Madelyne’s head went weightless. Nay!

  “What is this?” Fantin turned, his words soft, but the touch of his hand on Madelyne’s skin turned heavy and still.

  “This man has been feeding your daughter, and whispering with her whilst you work to rid her of the evil within her. He is destroying your ever chance of cleansing her!”

  “De Masin, what is the meaning of this? Is this true?” Fantin whirled from Madelyne’s side and faced his man, hands on his hips.

  “Lord Fantin, ’tis not his only trespass,” Rufus continued. “He strode from the keep and spoke with a man near the oak tree—in secret.”

  Madelyne dragged in a shaking breath, her body overcome with tremors. Oh nay…!

  Fantin left her side as if propelled, leaving a force of shifting air in his wake, and a deep fear chilling her bones. “What are you about?” her father roared, snatching a gleaming sword from one of the tables, whirling to face his man.

  “Your work will never come to pass,” Seton told him, standing tall, though pain marked his face. “You seek to use Madelyne as the conduit for your work with God, but she will never fulfill that role.”

  “You know naught of what you speak,” shrieked Fantin, his eyes wild and desperate. He swiped out with the wide blade. In his fury, he swung too wide, and Seton easily leapt out of its path…but the priest was not so fortunate.

  Before Madelyne’s eyes, her father’s blade sliced through the neck of the little priest, leaving a deep, thick red line across his throat. He gurgled and slumped to the floor as Fantin stared in disbelief.

  Then, as if some great power seized him, Fantin clenched his fists, flinging his arms wide and raising his face to the wooden ceiling above, and shrieked before launching himself at Seton. “You have killed him! My priest!”

  “’Tis no matter, Fantin. Your work will come to naught,” Seton told him, jumping gracefully from his path. He pivoted toward Madelyne, breathing heavily against his pain. “Madelyne cannot fulfill the role you have made her as your daughter. She is not of your seed.”

  Madelyne froze as Fantin screamed again. “You lie! She is my flesh, my only flesh and she was created with the woman God has chosen for me! She is my destiny!”

  “Nay, you have been fooled all these years,” Seton continued, taunting him, dancing around the table as his eyes flashed with purpose. “Madelyne is my daughter.”

  Thirty

  The time had long come and since passed for Seton de Masin to open the small, side gate as he’d avowed he would.

  Gavin pushed all emotion from his mind. He focused only on that gateway lit by flickering torches—watching the weathered with age, gray wood that kept him from his beloved—nay, he would not think on that.

  Look only on the door. Wait for it to open. Count the knots, study the texture and grain of the wood.

  It did not open.

  Stare in the dim light at the splinters that form each plank.

  It did not open.

  His nerves screamed and yet he looked only there. He didn’t hear the shuffling of his men. He didn’t see them watching him.

  He did not look at the night sky, studded with stars and a low moon. He knew only stillness, black stillness within—rage simmering beneath, struggling to erupt.

  He did not allow it. He stared, grasping the hilt of his sword and still he waited.

  And still the gate remained closed.

  * * *

  “Nay!” Fantin shrieked, freezing with his sword in the air. “Lying whoreson!”

  Madelyne saw her own shock reflected in his face. Her body shook with chills and disbelief, yet something surged warm within her. She carried no madness in her veins. Her love to serve God came wholesome and from her heart…not from the twisted, skewed need of Fantin de Belgrume.

  Seton continued to move, holding his arm, taunting Fantin. “All of these years, I have known she is of my blood and she has lived safely out of your reach. I have made certain it would be so. Why do you think I have stayed in your service for all these years?”

  “Nay! ’Tis not true!” Fantin’s voice reached a shrill pitch, then cracked into dryness. “Nay! Lady Anne would never have lain with one such as you…and you tell me tales with no truth, Seton de Masin! You will not sway me from my purpose, for I am chosen !”

  Seton yanked up the sleeve of his tunic, baring his wrist, still dancing, moving ever closer to Madelyne. “See you here, Fantin—’tis all the proof you need. She and I have the self-same wrist-markings that my mother and her father have had before us. She is of my flesh. Madelyne is not your daughter, and she will not remain here under your care to live in the darkness of your world. I shall see to that.”

  With these words, Seton launched himself over the table, knocking bowls and dishes askew as he thumped to the floor next to Madelyne, banging into Tricky’s stool and upsetting her onto the floor.

  Seton reached for a long wooden broom and whipped it around, missing Fantin by only a whistle of air. He shifted his grip, settling the pole like a lance at his side, when something flew across the room and, with a dull thud, Seton dropped to the floor next to Tricky.

  Madelyne screamed weakly when she saw the small, black ball that had smashed into her new-found father’s forehead, and looked over to see Tavis, holding a leather sling.

  “Master!” he shouted, horror crossing his face as he stared at Fantin.

  Turning to look, Madelyne saw that her father had metamorphosed. While before, he had been animated, with fervor, and with eyes that glowed…now, his face curdled, darkening and shattering. His brows knit together and his eyes were slitted into angry black slashes. And his mouth…Madelyne swallowed when she saw the way his lips twitched and yanked, played as if a tiny thread tugged at them—as if they were controlled by some puppet master.

  A thin stream of saliva leaked from the corner of his twitching mouth as it seized up and around in this silent, eerie movement.

  At last, the mouth opened and a shriek of ungodly rage spewed forth, filling the cha
mber with such force that the bowls rattled. Fantin’s face blossomed red and purple and his hands clutched at his middle as though he were trying to tear out his insides even as his feet stepped and jumped and danced on the stone floor.

  The veins in his neck grew, swelling to blue and then black, as he screamed the cry of a dying man.

  For Madelyne, in a moment of pure black fear and icy hopelessness, realized that his insides were dying…that he had naught left for himself, and that his mind died because his dream had been taken from him by Seton’s taunting knowledge. She could barely comprehend that Fantin was not her father—it was unimaginable how shattered he should feel, learning that she was not of his flesh.

  Fantin swept to her side, then, and before she could draw a breath to scream again, had the tip of a knife at her throat. His eyes bored into hers, burning, and his pupils were no longer pinpricks of black, but huge black saucers.

  Madelyne closed her eyes, swallowing, and felt the tip of the knife cold on her throat as it constricted. She would meet her God now. The God she knew, not the one her father—nay! her father no longer!—not the God Fantin had fabricated.

  Then the coolness withdrew.

  She opened her eyes and found Fantin’s face very close to hers, still crumpled with the destruction of his dreams, rasping a harsh breath from flared nostrils. “Nay.” His single word, whispered, puffed on her face, stale and moist. Then he spoke, again, slowly, as though the words formed like perfect, single drops of water, dropping, one at a time, in his mind: “I loved your mother. She betrayed me.”

  He pulled away. The rage seemed to have subsided and though his eyes remained wild, his movements smoothed and slowed. “Nay,” he said again, as if needing to convince himself. “She betrayed our God.”

  Those simple words, that coolness, caused a great, icy, fathomless fear to billow in her. Fantin’s rages had always been a source of great horror and pain…but this—this calmness, this studied calmness, laced with purpose, caused her to shake with terror as never before.