"Lettie is doing well. Barden's mother, Coria, has taken her into her home and cares for her. "
"And how fares she with the loss of her son?"
Madelyne brushed some dirt from her skirt. "She has become accustomed to the loss, my lord, and though she grieves for him, she has found strength in caring for Lettie and the child she carries. " Now she had the courage to look up, and she was surprised to see him staring into the distance, his face carved in emotionless stone.
"I had hoped to save them both," he admitted, still gazing, unseeing, toward the horizon. Then, as if comprehending the words she'd spoken, he whipped his gaze to hers. "Lettie carries a child?"
Madelyne nodded once, suddenly shy under his heavy gaze. "Aye. She had only suspected before the fire, but now she has told Coria, and together the women have learned to deal with their grief by focusing on the coming baby. "
"I shall send her a cow and some hens," he murmured to himself.
Madelyne returned to her task, and felt rather than saw him as he sank further to the ground, sitting next to her so that the toe of his boot nearly brushed her skirt. What he could hope to accomplish by his presence, she did not know, so, emboldened, she turned to ask. "My lord, is there aught that I can do for you?"
As she spoke, he reached out and caught a flyaway strand of her hair, tucking it behind her ear. Madelyne froze, her heart thumping in her throat, as his fingers brushed her ear and the side of her face. "Nay. " The single word was carried softly on the breeze and hung there for a moment until he spoke again. "I wished only to seek the serenity of the garden, and the calmness of your presence after a day of much activity. "
Shaken, Madelyne forced herself to return to her weeding. What could he mean? Still acutely aware of his presence, she felt him reach for and pluck another stem of mint, and smelled the crispness of its scent as he chewed on it.
"You prefer to be out of doors," Lord Gavin commented in a dusky, rumbling voice.
"Aye. 'Tis the best place to enjoy the world God has given us. To smell the clean air, to enjoy His creatures and the green things He has created. . . . " Madelyne glanced at him, then quickly back to the clump of oregano that grew in the midst of the mint. "Even when it grows where we do not wish it to," she continued, gesturing to the oregano as she pulled it from the earth. "One must stop and give thanks. "
Lord Gavin looked at her in such a way that made her feel as though he'd never before seen her. "And I-'tis something I rarely think to do, my lady. The times I spend in this world are on the back of a horse, or brandishing some blooded weapon. . . and rarely have I a peaceful moment such as this. . . to smell the mint and to touch the soft leaves of the rosemary. "
There was silence for a long moment, again, and just as she was about to speak, the sound of footfalls thumping down the path reached them. She and Lord Gavin looked up to see Jube, accompanied by Clem and Tricky, hurrying toward them.
"My lord, a missive has arrived from the king," Clem announced, brandishing a parchment with the sovereign's red wax seal on it.
Lord Gavin took the message and broke the seal, heedless of the pieces of red wax that crumbled to the ground. "Does the messenger await a reply?" he asked as he unfolded the paper.
"Aye. He is to join us for supper and stay only the night, then return to his majesty with your response. "
Madelyne watched as he perused the letter quickly, and saw his countenance still and settle into the harsh features she was familiar with. All trace of ease faded from his face, and when he looked up, even his dark brows had drawn together in a fierce black line. He looked at her, and his eyes were stone cold and flat. "The king requests your presence at his court. "
A pang of fear shot through her, and she managed to subdue it with a swallow and a slow breath. 'Twas only the royal order that she had expected, yet Mal Verne seemed inexplicably disturbed by the missive that he had certainly anticipated. Without thinking, she touched him, resting her fingers on the hard muscles of his arm. She felt him start beneath her hand, almost as if he wanted to pull away from her touch. . . and she dropped it immediately. "What is it? Is there more?"
He had folded the parchment and stuffed the stiff paper into the belt of his tunic as he rose to his feet. "Your father has learned of your presence here at Mal Verne, and he has expressed his concern for your safety and his desire to see you. "
The shaft of fear pierced her again, and Madelyne felt light-headed. Her father. Fantin. She grasped a handful of skirt and pulled awkwardly to her feet. Quelling the panic that threatened to overtake her, she replied carefully, "When must we leave?"
He measured her with his gaze, then flickered his attention to Jube and Clem. "On the morrow. His majesty expects us at Whitehall with all haste. "
Peg would accompany them to court.
The older woman and Tricky had taken charge of the packing, leaving Madelyne to do naught but sit near the fireplace and be subjected to a discussion of her clothing, fashion, and personal attributes as if she weren't present.
"Nay, child, not that violet! 'Twould make her look as lost as the drabness of a plowed field," Peg admonished Tricky, who had held up an undergown of the offending color. "Verily, my sister's daughter by law could wear such a color as that, for she has hair a pale wheat color. But for one such as my lady, why, only the reds and greens and golds, and mayhaps a blue or so, will do for her. My brother's daughter's mother was known for her beautiful blues woven in cloths made for the ladies of the courts in Paris. Aye, she would pick the flowers and cut their stems, leaving only the blue leaves before she would stew them in a pot-for days and days, he would tell us. . . and the smell would be enough to turn yer stomach, it would. . . and I suppose she must cook them out of the house, else. . . . " Her voice trailed off, and she paused, looking at Tricky, who had been listening avidly, and then at Madelyne, and then down at the cloth she clutched in one hand. "Hmmph. . . aye. . . . hmm. " She turned, folding a golden undergown and laying it carefully in the trunk.
"I cannot take all of this clothing," Madelyne protested, gesturing at the mounds of cloth on the bed and stools. "Will not the lady miss it when
she comes here?"
Peg looked at her in bewilderment. "What are you speaking of, child? The lady is not coming here-at the least, if she were to do so, she would have no use for clothing!" She gave a short chuckle, then sobered. She picked up another gown. "Did you not know? Lady Nicola is dead, my lady. "
"Lady Nicola? Lord Gav-Mal Verne's wife-is dead?" Madelyne felt a sudden, foolish unburdening of her heart.
Tricky sprang off the stool on which she'd perched for a moment's rest and placed her hands on her round hips. "Aye, 'tis so, my lady. Did not Lord Mal Verne tell you?"
Peg snorted, casting a sidewise glance at the other two. "Lord Gavin speaks not of his wife, nor will he allow any of us to speak of her in his presence. "