Sanctuary of Roses

Twenty-One

“What ails Lord Mal Verne?” Tricky asked, looking up into Clem’s stoic face.

He shrugged, his large shoulders moving with rugged grace against the stone wall at which he leaned. Tricky pulled her attention away from those broad, capable shoulders and found her interest wandering over the meaty arms that crossed over his middle and then back up to be trapped by his gaze.

She felt her heart pick up speed. He was such a large man, and when he looked at her like that—with a combination of irritation and flat disinterest, but so heavily that she felt her chest swell—Tricky felt light-headed and the need for support. She groped for the bench and sat upon it, focusing her attention on her feet and the arrangement of her skirts over them.

“He nearly threw himself down Jube’s throat when he brought my lady back to her chamber this day,” she continued, feeling the need to fill the silence that yawned between them. “He scolded him for allowing Madelyne to be unchaperoned in the garden—but I know that she was not alone. Lord Reginald…” She stopped and felt the familiar squiggly feeling she got in her stomach when something interesting was about to happen—like when Lord Mal Verne had arrived at Lock Rose Abbey to take Madelyne away with him. A smile tugged at the corners of her mouth and she chewed over her theory for a moment.

“I’m certain that Jube was most obliging when you offered him comfort in the face of our lord’s ill temper.” Clem looked idly at the fingers on one hand, then glanced briefly at Tricky.

“Aye…the man has a charm about him that would wither the most dispassionate of women,” Tricky responded lightly. Why was the oaf forever talking of Jube when she was with him? “While you, sirrah,” she stood, moving close enough to him that she could tell that he held his breath, “are naught but a malcontented killjoy.” She stepped closer, effectively trapping him between herself and the wall. “I wonder,” she mused, running her fingers slowly up along his arm, “what it would take to lighten your mood… ”

Clem pushed himself away from the wall—and away from her—and stood at his full height. Not as tall as the blonde Jube, but much taller than diminutive Tricky. “I must see to my lord Gavin, for he was injured during the hunt this day. Mayhap that is the reason for his ill humor.”

She could not help but notice the rapid rise and fall of his barrel chest. “If you believe that his injury from the hunt is the reason for his poor temper, Clem de Ardethan, you are the veriest fool I know!” She poked him in the chest with her index finger, noting how hard and firm it was. “Look you more closely at what transpires and you will see that there is more to it than that! Did you not know that Lord Mal Verne has kissed Lady Madelyne?”

The expression on Clem’s face was one of such disbelief that she thought for a moment he would dissolve into a fit of laughter. Then, irritation flashed across his face. “A kiss between them? Pah! Even if it were true, ’twould mean little more than a moment of foolishness on his part!”

“Is that, then, what a single kiss betwixt a man and a woman signifies? A moment of male foolishness?” Angry now—after all, Clem had kissed her one time, and the man was dense besides!—Tricky slammed her hands onto her soft hips. “I vow that makes you the veriest of fools, Clem de Ardethan!” She whirled, stalking off down the corridor, away from the man who—she hoped—stood gaping after her.

Tricky fumed as she rushed back to Madelyne’s chamber. Men were so foolish—so thick-headed!

When she arrived there and found her mistress seated next to the fire, Tricky did not hesitate to share her frustration with Madelyne.

“Clem is the veriest of fools! I can see it in his eye that he desires to kiss me…yet he makes the greatest of excuses to walk away!”

Madelyne set her embroidery down and looked at her with unblinking gray eyes. “Tricky are you so sure this is true—or do you only speak of wishes?”

“Oh, nay, Maddie…’tis in his eyes and was in his kiss. It’s just that men seem to fight it when true love smacks them in the backside. Lord Gavin—’tis happening to him too, you know. He doesn’t know what to do with his feelings for you.”

“What nonsense you speak.” Madelyne’s attention was fixed closely on Tricky. “Lord Gavin does not care for me—he is about to give me in marriage to Lord Reginald.”

“Oh, nay, Maddie…’tis not so. Mark my words…you will not be wedding with Lord Reginald.”

“We have had the betrothal contract prepared,” Henry told Gavin as he drummed his fingers on the table next to him. The ever-present goblet of wine rested near his elbow, and a plate of dried apples and a hunk of bread next to it. “All that remains is to tell young D’Orrais and seal the betrothal. The wedding can take place immediately after—mayhap this Sunday.” Henry chuckled. “He’ll owe my coffers twenty gold pieces and two years service of fifty men for the privilege of wedding with the nun.”

Gavin drank from his own goblet, draining it, then moved to refill it. A strange gnawing scraped his inner belly, and neither food nor drink seemed to alleviate it.

Henry rose and paced over to where his scribe sat, scratching busily upon a parchment. The man could not speak, although he could write and hear well, so Henry preferred his attendance over all other scribes at court. “A missive to Fantin de Belgrume, informing him of his daughter’s impending marriage, and the assessment of a fine for our services in arranging the betrothal, would be in order as well, do you not agree, my lady? One hundred gold coins should suffice.” He chuckled complacently.

“Aye,” Eleanor purred from her seat in the formal court chamber where Madelyne had met with the king only a se’ennight earlier. “All the court—the ladies most especially—gladly await the announcement of a wedding celebration. Indeed, the sooner she is wed and bedded, the easier I’ll be. I like the girl—she’s no Therese, the foolish slut,” she cast a shrewd glance at Gavin, who quickly took another drink of wine, “thank the saints, but she’s caused enough havoc among my ladies that I am ready to have her out of my sight.” She smoothed her gown, then looked up. “Gavin, my darling, would you please pour me some of that wine you have been hoarding?”

“Of course, your majesty.” He found his voice and moved to do her bidding.

“Gavin, have you summoned D’Orrais? ’Tis nigh time we had this arranged.” Without waiting for a response, Henry stood and stalked to the door leading from the court room to the main alcove. He flung it open, bellowing for a page to attend him at once.

Eleanor watched in amusement, then returned her attention to Gavin. “Well, my lord, ’tis the moment you have long sought. You shall thus be relieved of your duty to Lady Madelyne, and free to return to your lands—or to your warring, whichever it is that you interrupted to bring her to our presence.” A sly light colored her eyes as she curved her lovely mouth into a smile. “You have served us well, Lord Gavin, now, and these years past. I am quite sure that my husband would agree, would you not, my lord?”

Henry, who had sent a page scuttling off to fetch Reginald D’Orrais, returned to his wife’s side and, resting a hand upon her shoulder, nodded. “Of course. Mal Verne knows that I value his service.” He paced over to the table and picked up a piece of apple, shoved it into his mouth, and chewed like a cow.

Eleanor glanced at Gavin, who stood lamely to one side. The queen spoke true…his desire to be free of the responsibility of Madelyne’s well-being was upon him. Yet… He looked at Eleanor, and she caught his eye, tipping her head slightly.

Suddenly, it burst from him. “I would wed Madelyne de Belgrume.” The words were out before Gavin could bite them back, and he stood, silent, as shocked by the statement as Henry appeared to be.

“What?” the king roared, slamming his hand onto the table and the edge of the plate. The platter flipped onto the floor, scattering food beneath the moving feet of the king. “Gavin, what in the bloody hell are you talking about?”

“D’Orrais cannot hope to compete with Fantin’s wiles,” Gavin explained, the words rushing from his suddenly loose tongue, the facts and arguments all lining up as if he’d long thought them. “Nor does he have the experience or knowledge to manage a fief such as Tricourten at the level of rents you expect, sire. As well, you have bid me find a manner in which to contain de Belgrume, and I believe that wedding with his daughter would give me ample opportunity to do so.” He paused, then added, “And, most practically, ’tis time I married again. I must have heirs, and a wife who can minister to me when I am hurt or ill would be an asset as well.”

Henry smiled slyly. “You would indeed have a time of it begetting an heir on that nun. She is—” He abruptly stopped when he saw the black expression on Eleanor’s face. “Aye, well, then, Gavin, forgive me if I appear to be more than a bit… stunned…by your pronouncement, as you have bewailed the burden of seeing to that young woman for weeks now. And now, when you have the chance to unload yourself, you request to be shackled to her?” He shook his head, but a grin tickled behind his beard. “Do you fancy yourself in love with the maid?”

“Of course not,” Gavin replied, gripping his goblet more tightly. “As I explained, it is the most fitting of solutions. As you charged me with the task of finding her a husband, I hereforth make my recommendation.”

Henry looked at him, exchanged glances with his wife, and nodded. At that moment, the throne room door opened, and a page announced Reginald D’Orrais, who entered just in time to hear Henry’s words. “Aye, then, Gavin, you may have Madelyne de Belgrume to wife. And a very generous fine to your liege as for the privilege.”