tethered nearby had been dry and warm—else they may have taken ill yet again. Gavin knew they had been drugged, and, indeed, knew the perpetrator of the deed. The serene Madonna-nun, who had so innocently given him the goblet from which to drink, had stayed at his side, watching him with luminous gray eyes while her potion did its work. Though he’d recognized a certain steeliness under her calm demeanor, he’d never thought to be the recipient of such callousness from his own healer.
Afterward, he may have thought all of it no more than hallucination, had he not found her prayer beads tucked into his pouch. An’ it hadn’t been until some days later ere he remembered the markings on her wrist and realized what that might mean.
He would seek out Judith, who served in the queen’s court, to be certain his suspicions were accurate.
As always when he meant to speak with his cousin and childhood playmate, Gavin’s heart weighed heavier. He relived again those moments when Judith realized what hurt he’d caused her. Those blue eyes had pooled with angry, accusing tears, and her long fingers had clenched into her own arms, drawing prickles of blood. She had bid him remove himself from her sight.
Ere that time they’d spoken but briefly, and though the accusation was no longer in her expression, he could see sorrow and pain still mirrored there. He grieved with her, but he could do naught about putting the anguish there except to have vengeance upon Fantin de Belgrume in her name as well as his own.
When Gavin, Lord of Mal Verne, was announced in the queen’s court, the gossip and giggles halted abruptly and the ladies turned to watch in fascination as the tall, rugged man strode into the chambers. He went directly to Eleanor, kneeling to kiss her ring, and when a slight smile cracked his hard face at something she murmured to him, it was well-noted.
Judith, who sat in a nearby corner embroidering on a wedding gown for one of the ladies, stood as he rose from posturing over the queen’s hand. She walked quickly to him, hoping to impress upon him her pleasure at his visit. Since she was very young, they’d been friends—although Gavin was nearly seven years older than she. He’d fostered under her father’s care, and Gavin had been the elder brother she’d never had. This rift between them had caused her nearly as much grief as Gregory’s death.
“Gavin!” She smiled and stretched out her hands to him, ignoring the interested looks cast from the other ladies.
Mal Verne had a reputation at court that caused a combination of attraction and trepidation among the ladies—they either discussed ways in which to breach that iron-like armor in order to captivate his heart, or ’twas declared that he had no heart to conquer. He turned, and though she had warmth and welcome radiating from her body, she saw that hesitation and apprehension still swam in his eyes.
“Lady Judith,” he said formally, lightly taking her fingertips in his large, scarred hands. “You look well, as always. How do you fare?”
Disappointment swelled through her. He looked haggard and hard, his face set as if in stone, his gray eyes cool and flat as marble. ’Twas as if he allowed any emotion to come to bear, he would crumble.
Judith squeezed his hands, trying as always, to show that she’d forgiven him for that day years before…and, as always, he did not seem to comprehend, remaining remote and cool. “I am well, of course—how could I not be, here with the queen?”
She slipped a hand through the crook of his elbow, drawing him away from the curious ears and eyes of the ladies-in-waiting. “But you…Gavin, have you been ill?” She sat on the cushioned bench in a small alcove and looked up at his towering figure.
After a moment of hesitation, he lowered himself to sit next to her. “Naught but a small slice in my side from de Belgrume’s sword,” he said dismissively. “’Twas tended by a nun in a nearby abbey.”
“You look weary.” She tried again to bridge the span betwixt them.
“I traveled from York, and I have not rested ere I left. ’Tis no more than that.” He formed his lips into a half- hearted smile. “Judith, I came only to ask of you some information—I do not wish to keep you from your duties, or your friends.”
She swallowed and looked away. If only he’d let his guard relax, and put aside his feelings of guilt, he would see that she was pleased at his visit instead of being overset by it. Since Papa’s death, Gavin was her only living relative, her only family…and he’d refused to acknowledge it since Gregory’s death for fear of shaming her. “I would be most pleased to help you if I am able, cousin.”
“You were fostered for a short time with de Belgrume’s daughter, were you not?”
“Aye, Gavin, I know that I have spoken of that year in Kent on occasion. I was only twelve summers, and she no more than ten. She was there for only five moons before he sent for her to return to Tricourten. She did not wish to go.” Judith clenched her fingers as she recalled the deathly whitening of her friend’s face at the message. Though Madelyne spoke little of her father, ’twas obvious she disliked—even feared—him. “’Twas only some moons later that I learned she and her mother had drowned in the river near Tricourten.”
“Drowned. Aye, that was the story I recall hearing as well.” Something in Gavin’s eyes gave Judith pause, and she looked at him more closely.
“What is it?”
“Did you not speak to me of an odd marking on her arm? I recall your musings once that the little girl had some unusual spots near her wrist.”
Judith nodded. “Aye. Three moles near her wrist, just here.” She demonstrated on her own flesh. “When she first came to Kent Castle, one of the maidservants made mention of it and spread the talk that mayhaps she was a witch, with such markings. But that notion was soon dispelled, for Madelyne was such a kind and sweet girl that none could think ill of her.”
It seemed that a glint of grim humor flashed over Gavin’s face at that, but ’twas gone so quickly that Judith was sure she had imagined it. He spoke again. “And how exactly were those markings placed?”
She showed him: one mole atop two that were aligned, creating the shape of a small, tight triangle. There was such satisfaction in his face that she suddenly realized what he was about. “You do not mean that she lives?”
His brows drew together in a sudden show of ferocity such that Judith was taken aback. “Aye, the wench does live. And it shall be through her that I’ll at last get to Fantin.”
“You’d not hurt her!” Judith forgot herself and the fragility of the tenuous bond between them and clutched at his powerful arm. Insult flashed over his face at her words, and she berated herself for causing it. But she’d not see another woman, especially Madelyne de Belgrume (if ’twas truly her of whom he spoke) hurt.
“Nay, Judith, I’d not hurt her.” His voice was gruff as he closed his fingers over her hand to remove it from his arm. “But she will be a means to bring Fantin to heel.”
The rough stones ground into his aching knees, but Fantin de Belgrume delighted in the discomfort. He would bear any such penance or pain whilst he prayed—for any distress he suffered now would be well repaid when his work was completed. Indeed, Fantin preferred to pray among the evidence of this work, there on the bare floor, within the sight and smell and feel of it, rather than in the chapel.
He twined his fingers together in supplication, finishing the hour of prayer that was as much a part of his work in the laboratory as the formulas and tonics and metallic brews were. Fantin began and ended every session in his laboratory in concert with God, knowing that without His guidance, he would never find the formula he sought…which had been promised him.
’Twas fitting, that he should be the one to receive the secret once given to the Magdalen—the fascinating, sinful woman who appeared as three different ladies in the Gospels: Mary of Magdala, Mary, the sister of Lazarus, and the woman who anointed Christ’s feet with her tears and wiped them dry with her hair.
She was a woman who atoned for her sins—a wealthy woman, just as Fantin himself was wealthy. A wealthy woman who sinned through sexual pleasure…just as Fantin did. The woman from whom Christ had expelled seven demons.
Legend had it that this woman’s bones—the bones of the Whore Saint, as Fantin preferred to think of her— were interred near Vézelay, in France. Coincidentally, it was the village near where his mother hailed, and was thus cause for her devotion to the Magdalen. Legend foretold that the blood of the woman saint ran in Fantin’s own veins—and he knew that was the reason God had chosen him.
Pulling to his feet, relishing the pain that shot down his left leg and knowing that soon it would never bother
