Chapter Eleven
Fantin's howl of rage ricocheted off the walls of the small room, followed by the clatter of tin goblets, eating knives, and metal platters as they tumbled to the floor. "Imbeciles!" he shouted, eyes bulging as he stalked fore and aft amongst his men. "Each of you! All imbeciles!"
He could not even take pleasure in the way they cowered before him, for pure rage empurpled his vision. Madelyne had been within his grasp. . . the Stone so close he could taste its power. . . and now he sat empty-handed in some bloody, primitive tavern with naught but godless cretins to serve him. Unblessed, they were, and he, foolish as he was, had brought them into his employ, thinking to share with them some benefit of the Gift once it was his. But now, nay. Nay.
"Out of my sight! All of you!" he ordered, heedless of the proprietor's worried face peaking around the doorway.
The men fled-those who were left of the thirteen-and Fantin slumped in his chair, fighting to regain clarity over the haze of fury that fogged his faculties. These rages that befell him at moments such as this, and with more frequency now that he came closer to the fruits of his labor, affrighted him with their vehemence and strength. Rufus had cautioned him to work to control them, else he might become too impatient and suffer God's displeasure. Thus, Fantin raised his eyes to the heavens and prayed for a moment, allowing the comfort of this familiarity to wash over him.
He barely finished his words of supplication when his mind wandered back to the moment. . . the moment when he had seen her, seen the girl and recognized her-before slipping away from the small battle to allow his men to finish. In an attempt to maintain anonymity, he'd left the actual seizure of Madelyne to his trusted man Arneth, choosing to keep for himself the pleasure of killing Mal Verne-of putting an end to the man who stood always betwixt Fantin and his work. But to his surprise and fury, the bloody coward had not been present when the ambush took place.
God's bloody teeth! The fury threatened to rise within Fantin again, rattling his nerves and stringing his muscles tightly. How could he have come so close, only to have her swept away? Never again. Never again could he trust those fools to do what he must do for himself!
His fist closed around a knife and he stabbed it into the scarred wooden table, burying it as deep as the first digit of his finger. His shuddering breathing rasped in the sudden silence, and his fingers opened and closed, opened and closed around the hilt of the knife.
His breathing slowed again, and at last he was able to reach for his goblet of wine-he disdained ale, for it was the drink of mean serfs-and drink heavily, draining it with several gulps.
Could he have been wrong? Could he and Rufus have misunderstood?
Or. . . mayhap it was another test.
Aye. Another test. He nodded and sank to the floor, to his knees, to prostrate himself there.
He must ask forgiveness. . . for failing. For allowing the bloody heathen Mal Verne to best him. For allowing his rival to once again stand in his way, to keep him from completing his work.
The stone floor bit into his knees, but Fantin reveled in the pain. He knew he must bear it, enjoy it, worship it. He must find some other painful penance to bear, now that he had failed his God again.
Curling his fingers into the edge of the rough table, Fantin dropped his forehead to the wood with a loud and painful thump and stared down at the floor with vacant eyes, praying, begging, pleading. . . silently and violently. . . for something. For God to speak to him, to guide him.
Tears filled his eyes. He tried so hard. . . so hard to be the man God had chosen him to be. To fulfill his destiny. To be all that God wished him to be. A drop fell to the floor, dampening the dust below, and seeping into nothingness.
At last, when he looked up, he saw a flicker of movement at the doorway-the wisp of a skirt as it fluttered past. "Hail! Wench!" he called, suddenly thirsty. . . and famished.
The skirt paused and returned to view, and with it came a comely wench with a low-cut, but soiled, bodice. She sauntered in to the room. Obviously she was either unaware of his high ire only moments before, or, now that it had subsided, was unafraid.
"My lord, how may I-a be helpin' ye?" She flashed him a coy smile and came to stand next to his table, generously showing her cleavage to its best advantage.
The ample mounds of her pushed-up bosom threatened to erupt from the tight bodice, and he saw them vibrate with her movements.
And he knew.
God had responded to his pleadings. Here was his penance. "Come hither, my lovey," he invited in his smooth, rich voice. He smiled.
She bent forward, and, eyeing her cleavage, he reached to slip a long finger into the deep crevice between the globes. She allowed him to slide his hand down to cup a heavy weight, sighing and smiling in the same way all whores did. . . the way Nicola had, and Retna.
"Eey, my lord, I see what 'tis y'r wishin' for. " She grinned, showing three holes where teeth had been and moving around the table to stand next to him. "Wit' such fingers as you have, I can bet at the pleasure you give. An' let's see what we have to work with, now. "
"Aye. . . let us indeed. " Fantin did not relish taking the filthy whore to his bed. . . but 'twas God's will, and, in truth, his desire flared there beneath the table. After doing this task, he would serve his penance and mete out the punishment God had chosen. . . upon himself and the woman.
Gavin's jaw hurt. His teeth ground into each other, jarring slightly with the rhythm of Rule's sure-footed trot, as he focused his attention on the road in front of him-looking over the dark head that rocked below his chin and sent a faint smell of something floral to his nose.
He refused to think about the thick, shininess of that bare braid, or to admit that with one slight movement of his arm, he would brush against her ribs. Instead, he concentrated on what he should have been doing instead of chasing stags through the wood: delivering Madelyne de Belgrume safely to Henry's court.
He would not allow himself to be distracted by the memory of those lush lips beneath his, and the way her lids had slid closed over luminous gray eyes, fanning thick black lashes over her fair cheeks.
A spear of desire shot through his abdomen and for a moment he was helpless to the memory of her soft curves pressed against him and the tentative slide of her tongue over his. In sooth, he had committed his share of sins in his life. . . but surely this was too great a penance even for those.
He shifted uncomfortably in the saddle, then gritted his teeth as the movement brought him in contact with Madelyne's rigid back. She'd been more silent than usual, ducking her head when faced by him whenever they'd met in the day they spent at Prentiss Keep, and now that they had been back on the road again, she and Patricka kept to themselves when not ahorse. The bit of spirit Madelyne had begun to show since leaving the abbey had disappeared, leaving her little more than the silent, serene nun he'd taken from Lock Rose Abbey. Verily, he'd frightened the wits from her with his clumsy, forceful assault in the wood.
He almost regretted it-that succumbing to his base urges-but, in all truthfulness, he knew he would do it again if he had to do it over. It had been so long that he'd embraced or kissed a woman that did not smell of the farm, or did not need to scratch the fleas and lice that infested her hair. And surely it was only that novelty causing his mind to spin with the memory of a soft, scented noblewoman in his arms-nun though she was. With a frustrated rake of fingers through his hair, Gavin vowed to find a clean, willing woman when they reached the king's court to flush this haunting memory from his mind.
He was pulled from his internal ruminations as Clem rode up next to them. Gavin was mildly surprised to note that he was not sharing a saddle with the dimple-cheeked maid Madelyne had insisted upon bringing and he raised an eyebrow. "Where is your charge, man?"
Clem's face ruddied slightly and he gave a curt gesture. "She insisted that to save my arm from further injury, she should allow it to rest as it healed. She rides with Jube. "
Gavin glanced back to see the pair in question, then returned his attention to Clem. "Does your arm pain you, and did you welcome the discharge of that custody?"
The other man straightened in the saddle, flickering a glance toward Madelyne. "My lord, you know that I would not shirk my duty. The mistress stated that she wished to spare me the pain of holding her in the saddle. I could not argue with her logic. "
"She is no light of feather," Gavin agreed.
"'Twas no strain for me to hold her, my lord. " Clem replied with indignation, "But if she prefers the company of Jube, then who am I to say her nay?"
Gavin shot a surprised look at his man, noticing that his wide, kind face was set in a shuttered expression. He seemed most irked that the chubby maid rode with Jube, but mayhaps it was only that he felt his mastery had been challenged by her fear of injuring him. Gavin frowned. Clem was not normally one to care what a woman would think of him-Jube was more likely to flirt and woo and court a maiden than Clem. And Gavin himself rarely even smiled at a woman, yet he'd smiled at Madelyne. . . sought her company. . . kissed her in the deep woods. . . .
Sighing, Gavin shifted again in the saddle. It seemed his thoughts always came back to the woman who rode with him. Praise God they would reach Whitehall this night, where he could discharge himself of Lady Madelyne and return his attentions to that which truly mattered.
The Court of Henry the Plantagenet was more hectic and crowded than Madelyne could have imagined. She forgot to sit forward in the saddle, away from Lord Gavin, in her amazement at the activity just within the bailey at Whitehall. And she did naught but gape like a peasant.
There were squires and pages dashing to and fro, dressed in the livery of the king, the queen, and other nobility. At the least, ten marshals rushed to greet Mal Verne's party as the horses picked their way through the crowded bailey to the stables. Men-at-arms strode through the yard in loud, boisterous groups, swords and mail clanging to the rhythm of their steps. Clusters of merchants hawked baskets of fruit, vegetables, and small cloth items, and Madelyne even saw peasant boys and girls chasing chickens, sheep, and goats about.
Gavin dismounted near the stables, and before reaching to assist her down, he turned and barked orders to three nearby pages. "Make it known to his majesty that the Lord of Mal Verne has arrived," he commanded one young boy. To another, he said, "See that lodging is prepared for Lady Madelyne de Belgrume near the ladies' chambers-on the order of the Lord of Mal Verne. " And to the third, he added, "Send word to Lady Judith Kentworth that Lord Mal Verne has arrived. I will see her anon. "
He turned back to Madelyne and, fitting his hands around her waist, lifted her from the saddle to the ground in one fluid movement as she wondered who Judith of Kentworth was. Before she even steadied herself, he had turned to Clem, giving curt orders about the care of the horses, the deliverance of the baggage that followed, and lodging for the men.
Madelyne stood to one side, watching him-his face intent and hawkish, his thick dark hair shifting with the wind, his stance tall and commanding. This was the Gavin she had first experienced-the harsh, shuttered man with nary a hint of humor or softness in his persona. She'd thought mayhaps that had been only a shell that had begun to crack in those days at Mal Verne, but now, it seemed that she was wrong. That gentle moment in the garden when he brushed her hair behind her ear, and confessed that he'd sought her out to enjoy her presence. . . and the bold, sensual kiss they'd shared after her rescue: those moments did not belong to this man, here and now. Mayhaps they'd been only of her imagining.
"Lady Madelyne. " His deep voice rumbled, tinged with annoyance, catching her attention over the cacophony of other arrivals and making a flush rise in her face.
She looked at him without flinching for the first time since he'd kissed her in the wood, and she struggled to appear unmoved. "Aye, my lord?"
He offered her his arm without another word, and reluctantly, she slipped her fingers over the sleeve of his mail hauberk. They'd taken several steps toward the castle entrance before he deigned to speak to her again. "'Tis unlikely the king will grant you an audience before the morrow, so I will send for you when he does. You may be called to serve her majesty in the mean while, and if that should happen and I cannot attend you, seek out Lady Judith of Kentworth. She is very kind and she will help you in my stead. "
All at once, panic swamped her. Madelyne swallowed, barely noticing that they had entered the castle called Whitehall and that they were making their way down a stone hall filled with people. Some called acknowledgements to Gavin, and others eyed them with blatant curiosity. A small group of ladies passed by, dressed in bright, sumptuous gowns, and looked in askance at her as they offered cooing greetings to her companion. Madelyne took small comfort in the fact that his response to them was as cool and unemotional as 'twas toward her, for her mind was on the matter at hand.
He was going to leave her here-at court-alone.
The stab of trepidation returned and she struggled to contain her panic. He wouldn't leave her if it wasn't safe, she told herself as he manipulated them silently down the hallway. She might be new and naive to the ways at court, but she would learn them. Remaining here, under the care of the king and queen, was far preferable to being turned over to her father. A shiver raced through her, and although Gavin glanced down, he said nothing.
As they walked along the hallway, Madelyne renewed her private vow to do what she must to remain under the king's care. . . and to return to the abbey for her final vows should the king release her.
"The ladies' chambers are there," Gavin spoke, coming to a halt at the commencement of a side hall. He paused, stepping away from Madelyne and allowing her fingers to slip from his arm. He appeared to be looking for someone, and she backed toward the wall, tucking her fingers into the sleeves of her overtunic to hide their trembling.
A faint musty smell from the damp masonry reached her nose, and she wrinkled it slightly, hoping that her lodgings would not be so chill. Gavin gave her a brief look, followed by a short gesture indicating that she should stay there, then started down an adjoining hall, craning his head this way and that.
Feeling bereft and out-of-place, Madelyne tried to make herself as unobtrusive as possible, leaning back into a small corner. She watched in silence as people continued to pass by, giving her nary a glance as they chattered, argued, or laughed.
A familiar squeal of laughter reached her ears just as Gavin reappeared at her side, and they turned as one to look down the hall from where they'd come. Madelyne felt her companion spew out a long breath, but he said nothing as they were accosted by a breathless, bright-eyed Tricky, who was flanked by Jube, Clem, and Peg-as well as several serfs toting trunks and cloth bags.
Tricky ignored Gavin and went directly to Madelyne, taking her hands with soft, pudgy ones, and giving a sketch of a curtsey. When she rose to her full, diminutive height, her face was shiny and apple-cheeked. "There you be, my lady! I made certain to wait for our trunks that they be delivered to the right chamber. " Glancing at Gavin, who hadn't done much to hide his faint annoyance, she spoke, "'Tis said my lord has enough influence in his majesty's court to procure a private chamber for you, my lady. "
Madelyne looked at him in dismay. It had not occurred to her that she might have to share a chamber with some of the other ladies of the court, and she waited, holding her breath, for his response.
"Do you not look so unsettled," he responded with a gentler tone than she'd anticipated. "'Tis the reason we wait here-I expect the page to return with word of your chamber-a private one for you, my lady, as your maid seems to think you warrant such. "
"Aye, and costly 'twill be too, my lady. But 'tis the least can be done for you that you do not have to share a chamber with the other ladies. " Tricky cast a brief yet pointed look at Gavin.
Madelyne's dismay turned to confusion. "Cost? But. . . what cost would there be-his majesty has requested-nay, ordered-my presenc
e here. Surely it is not expected. . . . " Her voiced trailed off as she saw the impatient look on Gavin's face.
"Lodging is available at no cost if you wish to sleep in the women's quarters, on a pallet on the floor, with the other scores of women and children who follow the court-"
Tricky interrupted boldly-not unlike a terrier fiercely defending her mistress against a lion in his den. "My lady cannot stay in such a public place! Lady Madelyne, 'tis the very least can be done for you to arrange for a private chamber since his majesty has required your presence here. "
"But at what cost?" she asked, acutely aware that she had no funds with which to pay for her keep. Her chest tightened as the reality closed over her: she was completely at the mercy of the ways of the court, and with no money, she was even more vulnerable. "I haven't-"
Gavin cut her off with a curt sweep of his hand. "Do you not concern yourself with such matters. You shall be lodged here, and clothed and fed in the manner befitting the Lady of Belgrume. The expenses will be managed by Clem-send you to him any costs you incur. "
Madelyne's voice left her as she stared at him in a combination of horror and outrage. "Lord Mal Verne, I cannot accept that you should bear the expense of my stay at court. " She twisted her hands, still tucked in the sleeves of her overtunic, but kept her voice quietly even.
He glanced at her as though she were a fly buzzing about his ear, his brows knitting together in a dark line. "You were brought to court under my care, and will remain thus until the king relieves me of such duty-thus your expenses will be borne by Mal Verne. " When she was about to speak again, he gave her a quelling look, his face hard-planed and dark with annoyance. "Do you not fear-Mal Verne can easily bear any expense you might incur. I'll hear no more on the matter. "
He turned away to speak with Clem, leaving Madelyne to glare at him in angry futility. The man had the unlikable penchant for snapping at one when he wished to hear no more of a conversation. She withdrew her hands from her sleeves and folded her arms across her middle, turning from him in frustration. She did not intend to be a burden to him-or to anyone else. She would return to the abbey as soon as she gained permission from the king. What reason could the king want her-a nun-to stay in his court?
An unexpected shard of pain caused her to curl her mouth as Gavin's words penetrated her thoughts. A duty she was to Gavin of Mal Verne-and naught more than that. When the king relieved him of his care of her, she would not see him again.
Whether that be a blessing or a curse, she did not know.