Loving Rose: The Redemption of Malcolm Sinclair (Casebook of Barnaby Adair) Read Online Free Page B
Author: Stephanie Laurens
matured into his priorship.
“There’s one thing,” Roland eventually said, “that you often seem to forget.”
When Roland didn’t immediately continue, Thomas met his gaze and arched his brows inquiringly.
“You are not the man that the world knew. Trust me, your death, as you call it, and your years here have ineradicably changed you.”
Thomas inclined his head. “Perhaps so, and perhaps that, in part, is what’s behind my reluctance to leave, to chance my hand in the wider world.”
Roland blinked. “I don’t follow.”
“Put simply, I don’t know who Thomas Glendower now is, and I don’t know how he’ll fare outside these walls.”
Roland’s lips curved in wry understanding. “That’s the challenge, isn’t it?”
Thomas arched his brows. “A part of it, I suppose. But I think you and I can be reasonably certain that amassing the fortitude to quit this place will be merely a prelude to my fated task.” A moment passed, then, more pensively, he concluded, “But to address that task, it’s now abundantly clear that I need to go forth and seek it, or, more likely, to allow it to find me.”
Chapter
1
March 1838
Lilstock Priory, Somerset
T homas rode out through the gates with the sun glistening on the frosted grass and sparkling in the dewdrops decorating the still bare branches.
His horse was a pale gray he’d bought some months previously, when traveling with Roland on one of his visits to the abbey. Their route had taken them through Bridgewater, and he’d found the dappled gray there. The gelding was mature, strong, very much up to his weight, but also steady, a necessity given Thomas’s physical limitations; he could no longer be certain of applying sufficient force with his knees to manage the horse in stressful situations.
Silver—the novices had named him—was beyond getting stressed. If he didn’t like something, he simply stopped, which, in the circumstances, was entirely acceptable to Thomas, who harbored no wish whatever to be thrown.
His bones already had enough fractures for five lifetimes.
As Thomas rode down the road toward Bridgewater, he instinctively assessed his aches and pains. He would always have them, but, in general, they had sunk to a level he could ignore. That, or his senses had grown dulled, his nerves inured to the constant abrading.
He’d ridden daily over the last month in preparation for this journey, building up his strength and reassuring himself that he could, indeed, ride for the four or five days required to reach his destination.
The first crest in the road drew near, and a sense of leaving something precious behind tugged. Insistently.
Drawing rein on the rise, he wheeled Silver and looked back.
The priory sat, gray stone walls sunk into the green of the headland grasses, with the blue sky and the pewter of the Channel beyond. He looked, and remembered all the hours he’d spent, with Roland, with Geoffrey, with all the other monks who had accepted him without question or judgment.
They, more than he, had given him this chance—to go forth and complete his penance, and so find ultimate peace.
Courtesy of Drayton, he had money in his pocket, and in his saddlebags he had everything he would need to reach his chosen abode and settle in.
He was finally doing it, taking the first step along the road to find his fate.
In effect, surrendering himself to Fate, freely giving himself up to whatever lay in wait.
Thomas stared at the walls of the priory for a moment more, then, turning Silver, he rode on.
H is way lay via Taunton, a place of memories, and of people who might, despite the disfigurement of his injuries, recognize him; he rode straight through and on, spending the night at the small village of Waterloo Cross before rising with the sun and continuing west.
Late in the afternoon on the fourth day after he’d ridden out from the priory, he arrived at Breage Manor. He’d ridden through Helston and out along the
“There’s one thing,” Roland eventually said, “that you often seem to forget.”
When Roland didn’t immediately continue, Thomas met his gaze and arched his brows inquiringly.
“You are not the man that the world knew. Trust me, your death, as you call it, and your years here have ineradicably changed you.”
Thomas inclined his head. “Perhaps so, and perhaps that, in part, is what’s behind my reluctance to leave, to chance my hand in the wider world.”
Roland blinked. “I don’t follow.”
“Put simply, I don’t know who Thomas Glendower now is, and I don’t know how he’ll fare outside these walls.”
Roland’s lips curved in wry understanding. “That’s the challenge, isn’t it?”
Thomas arched his brows. “A part of it, I suppose. But I think you and I can be reasonably certain that amassing the fortitude to quit this place will be merely a prelude to my fated task.” A moment passed, then, more pensively, he concluded, “But to address that task, it’s now abundantly clear that I need to go forth and seek it, or, more likely, to allow it to find me.”
Chapter
1
March 1838
Lilstock Priory, Somerset
T homas rode out through the gates with the sun glistening on the frosted grass and sparkling in the dewdrops decorating the still bare branches.
His horse was a pale gray he’d bought some months previously, when traveling with Roland on one of his visits to the abbey. Their route had taken them through Bridgewater, and he’d found the dappled gray there. The gelding was mature, strong, very much up to his weight, but also steady, a necessity given Thomas’s physical limitations; he could no longer be certain of applying sufficient force with his knees to manage the horse in stressful situations.
Silver—the novices had named him—was beyond getting stressed. If he didn’t like something, he simply stopped, which, in the circumstances, was entirely acceptable to Thomas, who harbored no wish whatever to be thrown.
His bones already had enough fractures for five lifetimes.
As Thomas rode down the road toward Bridgewater, he instinctively assessed his aches and pains. He would always have them, but, in general, they had sunk to a level he could ignore. That, or his senses had grown dulled, his nerves inured to the constant abrading.
He’d ridden daily over the last month in preparation for this journey, building up his strength and reassuring himself that he could, indeed, ride for the four or five days required to reach his destination.
The first crest in the road drew near, and a sense of leaving something precious behind tugged. Insistently.
Drawing rein on the rise, he wheeled Silver and looked back.
The priory sat, gray stone walls sunk into the green of the headland grasses, with the blue sky and the pewter of the Channel beyond. He looked, and remembered all the hours he’d spent, with Roland, with Geoffrey, with all the other monks who had accepted him without question or judgment.
They, more than he, had given him this chance—to go forth and complete his penance, and so find ultimate peace.
Courtesy of Drayton, he had money in his pocket, and in his saddlebags he had everything he would need to reach his chosen abode and settle in.
He was finally doing it, taking the first step along the road to find his fate.
In effect, surrendering himself to Fate, freely giving himself up to whatever lay in wait.
Thomas stared at the walls of the priory for a moment more, then, turning Silver, he rode on.
H is way lay via Taunton, a place of memories, and of people who might, despite the disfigurement of his injuries, recognize him; he rode straight through and on, spending the night at the small village of Waterloo Cross before rising with the sun and continuing west.
Late in the afternoon on the fourth day after he’d ridden out from the priory, he arrived at Breage Manor. He’d ridden through Helston and out along the
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