carefully, and, indeed, when she finally spoke, it was with precision. “They must be made to leave as soon as possible.”
Madelyne stared at the abbess in surprise. “Mother—”
“Do you not turn them out until they are able to ride, but you must see that they leave at that time. I… ” She closed her eyes for a moment, then opened them again. “They bring naught but disruption and danger to the abbey…I can feel it. The sooner they are without our walls, the more easily I shall rest.” She fixed the gaze of her blue eyes on Madelyne. “You must also see to it that they are kept in the infirmary or at the stables, and allow them nowhere else within the abbey. If they wish to pray or to hear Mass, they may also come to the Little Chapel, but I’ll not have them see any more of us, or of the buildings, than that.”
Wrapping the prayer beads around her fingers, Madelyne could do naught but nod. She remembered with sudden clarity how cold and pained the gray eyes of their leader, the Lord of Mal Verne, had been when he opened them. A shiver skittered over her shoulders and she knew that Mother Bertilde was not wrong. This man brought power and the outside world with him, and somehow, this portended a change in the lives of those within the abbey.
She doubted that Mother Bertilde’s precautions would protect them from whatever should come.
As the abbess left her, Madelyne renewed her prayers with fervor.
Two
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.
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.”
