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. "
Madelyne clicked her tongue absently as she pressed the cut to be certain more blood did not come forth. Then, with a flat, wooden utensil, she spread the warm, sticky mass of herbs over the wound.
Some of the pungent paste slid down his side, over bronzed skin decorated with other, healed, wounds, into the thick, dark hair that grew over his abdomen. She tried to catch it with the spoon, but it matted into the coarse hair and clung there. With a frown, Madelyne finished covering the wound with the plaster, then lightly pressed a clean cloth over it.
"Do you not move," she told him, turning to get a damp rag. She felt him watch her, silently and steadily, as she brought back the dripping cloth, and was again conscious of the steeliness of his unwavering gray eyes.
"Ere I first saw you, I believed I had died and thought you to be the Madonna," he spoke, breaking the silence.
Madelyne glanced at him, a wry smile hovering at the corners of her lips. "And now, my lord?" She looked down, using the cloth to wipe away at the paste that had gathered in the hair on his stomach. His skin was warm and the ridges of muscle in his middle were smooth and hard under the cloth. When her hand brushed over bare skin, that tingle that had started in her fingertips returned. Her mouth went dry. The texture of another's flesh had never felt so warm, so soft and hard all at once. . . 'twas foreign and stirring and she felt odd.
"Now? Now
I wonder why one as fair as you would choose the cloistered life. "
She jerked her attention from the sensation of touching his skin, raising her gaze to be caught and held by his. Pulling the cloth from his skin, she looked away and her scattered thoughts returned to order. "The freedom that we enjoy is not to be had anywhere but in an abbey. "
"Behind stone walls you find freedom?" The derision showed in his face.