the chapel.”
Madelyne gave a weak laugh. Tricky had a way of speaking that reduced complicated situations to such simple ones. “Thank you, my friend. Now, we must gather our things, for Lord Mal Verne does not intend to be kept waiting.”
When she had collected those few items she intended to take with her, Madelyne gave one last sweep of the small room with her gaze. Would she ever see this cell again, kneel at the worn
Squaring her shoulders, she pulled the bag made of loose cloth that held her few personal belongings. She adjusted her veil and smoothed her skirt, uncertain how she looked—for there was no mirror in her cell—and left the room for the last time.
Outside, in the bailey, the rest of the sisters had gathered to bid her farewell. Lord Mal Verne and his men- at-arms stood a discreet distance away, and ’though he watched her steadily, he did not speak as she and Patricka embraced their friends.
Only Anne did not appear, and for this, Madelyne was grateful. She had said a brief farewell to her mother after speaking with Bertilde, and that leave-taking had been fraught with tears and sobs. They could not risk the chance that Anne would be seen or recognized by the men.
Thus, the last arms to hold her, and the last face to be kissed, was that of Mother Bertilde. She pulled Madelyne tightly to her and whispered, “God be with you, my child. Our prayers follow you wherever you go. May you have the strength and peace to accept that which is your future.”
Madelyne’s face was wet with tears when at last she began to walk across the bailey to join Mal Verne and his men. Tricky followed, leaving a sea of red-eyed women behind.
She approached Mal Verne, who continued to watch with stony eyes, and whose gaze flickered to Patricka as they walked closer. “I am ready to accompany you now, my lord. This is Patricka, my maid, who will accompany me.”
A twinge of satisfaction settled over her when she saw the disconcertion in his eyes. “Your maid? Nuns do not have maids.”
“Patricka is my maid, and she does accompany me whither I go. I trust that you will be able to accommodate one extra female.”
His mouth tightened ever so slightly—just enough for her to see that she had irked him with her cool response—and he turned abruptly, calling to one of his men. “Clem, the maid will ride with you.” He started toward the small herd of mounts gathered near the stable.
Madelyne took that as a silent command to follow him, and she gathered up the hem of her gown to do so. Some of the men were mounted, and others stood in a small cluster, holding the reins of whuffling, stamping destriers.
At the sight of the huge warhorses, Madelyne’s bravery deserted her.
The mounts stood many hands taller than she, with large heads and round eyes and huge, snorting noses. The hooves that fidgeted in the dirt or stamped in impatience were bigger than her face, and looked powerful enough to flatten a heavy oaken door with one thrust. Madelyne froze, unable to make herself move closer to the fierce creatures.
Mal Verne turned when he reached one of the larger, more spirited stallions, and frowned when he saw her standing aback. “Come, my lady,” he bid her impatiently as he struggled to calm the vigorous horse. “You ride with me.”
Madelyne’s throat dried, and she didn’t know if ’twas more from fear of getting close enough to the ferocious creature to sit upon it, or that she would be in such proximity to Mal Verne. It took every ounce of will to force to take a step forward, and then another, before the destrier reared slightly. His hooves slammed into the ground with a hollow sound, and Madelyne jerked backward, hand clutching at her throat.
“What ails you, lady?” Annoyance strained Mal Verne’s voice as he gave off the reins to one of his companions and started toward her.
“I…do not ride, my lord,” she managed to say steadily as he approached her.
“I did not think that you did,” he said dismissively, continuing to look at her as if she were daft.
Madelyne felt the necessity to explain further. “I…do not like horses,” she managed to say just before he wrapped one powerful arm around her waist, lifting her easily into the air. A faint shriek emitted from her mouth, surprising her before she pulled herself under control. “There is no need—”
Her words were stopped as he set her none-too-gently on the back of the dancing stallion. Before she could gather her bearings, she felt him leap into the saddle behind her. Suddenly, a long, firm thigh slid along her legs, which rested over one side of the saddle, and two hard arms enclosed her on either side. Madelyne fought to control a whimper of nervousness as the horse responded to the command of Mal Verne’s legs, nearly leaping forward in its impatience to be off.
As the destrier stepped eagerly into a fast trot, Madelyne was jostled backward by the momentum, back against the hard wall of man. Her breath caught in her throat as she became aware that she was completely enclosed by Gavin of Mal Verne, completely in his arms and completely in his power…and they rode from the gates of Lock Rose Abbey.
Five
The abbey was hours behind them and the sun dropping in the west before Gavin spoke directly to Madelyne. She seemed to have overcome, or at least concealed, her mislike and fear of riding.
When he leaned forward to speak into her ear, she straightened as if startled. “Tell me, Lady Madelyne, how did you come to the abbey, and leave your father to believe you and your mother drowned?”
She was quiet for a moment, in a silence he had come to expect from her—as if she took the time to carefully measure her words in response to certain questions. Her hands, stained from the boiled rose petals, clutched the pommel in front of her, and the corner of her veil flapped in his face as they jounced along at a brisk trot.
“I do not know how that particular story came about—I was only ten summers, and there was much my mother did not tell me. ’Tis likely the man-at-arms who helped us to escape created the tale of our drowning.”
“Escape?”
“Aye, ’twas an escape from my father.” He felt her move against him as she drew in a deep breath. “My father would fly into obscene rages when he prayed, and when he did, he oft beat and whipped my mother. One can understand why she would seek to escape him and that life…and of course, she would not leave me behind.”
Gavin fought back a resurgence of loathing for Fantin de Belgrume as he raked a hand through his shaggy, overlong hair. Any man who would hit a woman was a coward, though verily there were many who did. There was no law against a man beating his wife—she was his property and his to do with as he wished—but Gavin could not stomach the thought of raising a hand to a weaker being.
Regardless, de Belgrume must have struck out at his wife once too often. Yet, ’twas not a common thing, women leaving their husbands—for there were few places for a gentlelady to go. And if a woman did leave her husband, she could be rightfully returned to him.
And, Gavin reminded himself ruefully, what was seen through the eyes of a ten-year-old girl could be misconstrued and misunderstood. If there was a man-at-arms who dared to assist in their escape, likely that man had a deeper, more intimate involvement with the lady of Tricourten than he should.
Gavin’s mouth twisted and his chin jutted forward in remembrance of how it felt to be a husband who had been betrayed. ’Twas not any mean feat to comprehend how a man could be driven to such rage as to hit his wife.
But how did they come to the abbey, and what of the mother?
He leaned forward again in order to speak over the sound of thumping hooves and the ebullient conversations of his men. Her veil slapped into his face again, and he had the urge to yank it from her head so that his vision would not be obscured…and so that he could see the color of her hair.
Gavin sat back, upright, without asking his question. The color of her
