“’Tis Madelyne—she is gone, she’s been taken by her father. You must release me and allow me to rescue her.” Gavin strained against the bars again, bringing his face breath to breath with his liege lord.
“Fantin has Madelyne? How can that be? Did you not make arrangements for her to be guarded—”
“By
Henry stepped away from the bars. “Release the man,” he told the guard, watching impassively as Gavin straightened eagerly. “Go with God, Gavin…and this time, do you not return without de Belgrume’s head on a platter.”
Had he not been on such an urgent mission, Gavin would have reveled in the freedom of charging down the road on his mount’s back. As it was, he had no pleasure in the moment. From the instant the bars opened on the door to his cell, Gavin had been in motion, frenetic and frantic.
Early the morning following his release—by his count, two days since Madelyne had been taken—Gavin overtook his men and their party. They were only hours from Tricourten Keep.
He barely registered the presence of the woman in the group, the maid Tricky, except to speak sharply to Clem to keep her out of his way, and then dismissing her from his mind. His focus, his life, his every breath was pinpointed upon arriving at Tricourten and finding a way inside the keep.
Gavin kept his mind from considering what he might find when they gained entrance. He could let nothing distract him from his goal of getting there, and finding Madelyne…and treating Fantin to a slow, painful death.
Twenty-Seven
Madelyne’s throat was dry, but she dared not ask for water. She swallowed, again, wishing for just a drop of something for her parched mouth.
She’d arrived at Tricourten only a day before, but the hours that had passed since had been of such nighmarish quality that she dared not think on them. Instead, she allowed her head to fall back against the stone wall to which her wrists were chained. Her arms ached, extended as they were, and her fingers and feet had no sensation.
Bruises from the rough handling during her abduction and subsequent travel thudded painfully whenever she moved. The memory of her father’s fingers fastened around her neck, thumbs pressing into the soft underpart of her jaw until she swooned, caused panic to rush anew through her veins.
Now, she watched fearfully as Fantin and his assistant Tavis, along with a pale priest, sat at a long, rough table in the underground laboratory at Tricourten. She had vague memories of this room from her childhood, prompted by the nauseating smells and evil-looking devices scattered throughout.
She saw the way her father’s fingers opened and closed, opened and closed, like the mouth of a beached fish. “She will serve God here, with me. But she cannot do that if he has touched her and got her with child!”
“You must wait,” the priest said to her father, his voice soothing. “All may not be lost. If she is not breeding yet, she can once again attain her pure state.”
Fantin looked at her, and the expression in his eyes made her stomach heave. ’Twas not one of anger or evil…’twas one beaming with love—the love of a father. A
Prickles raced up her spine, covering her shoulders like a nasty cloak. “Aye…after we have exorcised every bit of Mal Verne’s touch, and all thought of disobedience, she will be better prepared to serve.”
Madelyne’s stomach tilted. He referred to the day before when he’d beaten her with his hand and a thin leather whip until she collapsed on the floor, all bravado and strength disintegrating into blood and tears. She swallowed again, and closed her eyes against the tears.
“Think, my lord,” Tavis was telling her father. “She has been wed with Mal Verne for less than a fortnight…’tis only slightly possible that she carries his child. She may know the answer now.”
Fantin swiveled toward Madelyne, his long face taut and white. “Do you carry that man’s child?”
She could not speak. The words would not form. Madelyne tried to respond, but nothing came from her mouth. Fantin surged out of his chair and stalked over to her. Planting a hand on either side of her head, he stared into her eyes…and what she saw there was enough to make her light-headed with terror. They were empty: cold, blue, steel…
“Do—you—carry—Mal—Verne’s—child,” he breathed, his stale, wine-tainted breath washing over her face. “Answer me, Madelyne, or I will pull that devil’s child from you!” Quick as a flash, he brandished a thin, shining hook, waving it unsteadily under her nose.
“I do not know,” she croaked, forcing the words from her trembling lips. “’Tis possible.”
Fantin’s shriek rang in her ears, and she instinctively ducked as he pivoted away from her. His hands slammed onto the table in rage, then wooden bowls and metal goblets tumbled to the floor as he swept his hand across them, knocking them awry. “Now what shall I do?” he howled, picking up a mortar and pestle and pitching them wildly toward her.
Madelyne did not move in time, and the wooden bowl struck her in the shoulder.
“Master, master… ” Tavis’s voice somehow reached through Fantin’s insanity and served to redirect the man’s anger. “We will simply wait until she has had her courses…and then you will know that she is ready for you. And if she does not have them in one moon’s time… ” he cast a sly look at Madelyne, trapping her eyes with his, “we shall rid her of the bastard’s babe and then you might be assured she is pure once again.”
“And then, when she is whole again, wholesome, she will devote herself to my work—praying and fasting in the name of God. She will be my link to the Father, and with her, I will find the answer.”
Darkness, thankfully, washed over her and Madelyne slid into oblivion.
When she opened her eyes some time later, a man’s face—one vaguely familiar—hovered near hers. As some of the cloudiness drifted from her gaze, and her mind began to focus, she realized that she was prone, on her back, and her arms, though still restrained, were not stretched as taut as they’d been.
The man brought a cup to her mouth and water—cold, heavenly, life-giving water—dripped between her lips. Her tongue slipped out to capture drops of it, and he tilted the cup so that it flowed more freely.
“Madelyne,” said the man—an older man, of an age with her father, “I’m here to help you.” He had red hair streaked with white, and calm gray eyes.
She tried to shake her head, but black spots danced before her eyes and she was forced to close them. It was an effort, but she forced a wan smile.
“You do not remember me…but your mother knew me well. I am Seton de Masin.”
When he spoke, the remembrance renewed itself in her mind. Seton: the man who’d allowed them to escape Tricourten during his night watch. The man who’d kissed her mother with more than a chaste wish of peace. The man who’d come to the abbey in search of them all those years ago…and who duly reported to Fantin that they were not there.
“I cannot free you yet,” he spoke quietly. “Fantin trusts me, and I must wait until the right moment. But I will do what I can to keep them from harming you further. I’ve sent word to Whitehall that you’re here.”
She tried to speak, to ask why…and he must have understood.
“As yet, I have no way to get you out of here…it will take a bit of planning. I have waited many years for a moment such as this, for I knew it would come. Though I always thought your mother would be the one in danger. Please, Madelyne, try to be brave for another short time…I will never be far from you…and I will get you free as soon as I can.”
She closed her eyes, hope beginning to billow within. “Gavin,” she managed to say. “My husband…he will come… ”
Seton was already nodding. “Aye, I know. I have sent the message to him at Whitehall… But your Mal Verne is a wise man, and ’tis likely he already knows you are here.”
