Free Sanctuary of Roses by Colleen Gleason

jounced along,
and realized how odd it must seem for a nun to be sharing the
saddle with their lord.
    When they reached the portcullis, it lifted
quickly and noiselessly—bespeaking of the care and maintenance that
obviously went into its upkeep. Although Madelyne knew little of
the ways of war, she was well-educated in the management of a
household, for all of the sisters shared in the tasks at Lock Rose
Abbey. She knew the value of a gate that raised and lowered without
hesitation.
    Then, before she had time to muse further,
the party entered the bailey and rode to the massive stone keep
that sat on the far end of the huge, enclosed yard. Marshals and
men-at-arms swarmed the travelers and horses, accepting reins as
the knights dismounted.
    Madelyne waited as Mal Verne dismounted
gracefully from behind her, then stepped around to the side of the
saddle over which her legs were positioned. Instead of assisting
her to dismount immediately, he gathered up Rule’s reins and turned
to speak with a stocky, black-haired man who looked to be perhaps a
decade older than he.
    “Robert! By the looks of it, you’re fare
better than the last I saw you, after that incident with the
shield. Glad to see you aren’t so black and blue. This woman is
Lady Madelyne de Belgrume,” he announced. “She is to be treated as
a guest, but not allowed without the keep unescorted.” Pointing a
finger at a tall, blond man with a crooked nose, he commanded,
“Jube, you shall be responsible for the lady’s well-being in my
absence.”
    Madelyne watched silently as her
accommodations were discussed as if she weren’t present. So this is
how it would be in a man’s world.
    Mal Verne stood near enough to her that she
could reach forward and touch the darkness of his shaggy hair. The
sleeves of his mail hauberk shifted, jangling quietly as he
gestured with his arm. He had not shaven for some time, and dark
stubble grew over his cheeks and chin, adding sharpness to the
planes of his face.
    He turned to her without warning, his
stone-gray eyes locking onto her gaze for a brief moment, causing
her breath to heavy. Madelyne quickly looked away, down, and found
her attention focused on his booted feet. Then all at once, strong
hands spanned her waist, and she was lifted up and down from the
saddle with a smoothness that indicated the ease with which he
handled her weight.
    Upon the ground, Madelyne staggered slightly
before she gained her footing, swaying against his broad chest for
the briefest of moments before she stepped back. He glanced at her
as she steadied herself, and she managed a weak smile. Patricka,
who, likewise had been assisted down from her mount, came to stand
by her side, looking as lost and uncertain as Madelyne herself
felt.
    Mal Verne turned his attention to the stocky
man named Robert and, as they began to speak in low tones, they
started toward the large oaken door that led to the keep.
    Madelyne and Patricka hesitated, but when
the man called Jube gestured for them to follow, they linked arms
and walked toward the massive entrance. Jube and a cluster of other
men-at-arms traced their footsteps, while others melted away, most
likely to return to their duties.
    Inside the keep, Madelyne found herself
dwarfed by the high-ceilinged Great Hall and the lines of crude,
log-hewn tables that filled it. For a brief moment, a shiver of
remembrance flitted through her mind, bringing with it the image of
the smoke- and laughter-filled hall at Tricourten on the night she
and her mother had escaped. Casting a sidewise glance at the dais
where the lord and his guests would sup, Madelyne almost expected
to see her father sitting there with his cronies as he played the
lute and sang with the voice of an angel. Her apprehension settled
when she saw that the table was empty, and she silently berated
herself for her nervousness.
    As long as she was in the king’s care,
Fantin could not hurt her. Thus Madelyne would do whatever she must
in order to