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“Lissa! Mind what I said—”
Brother Cuthbert’s arrival cut short all further instructions. The monk reported that Gaston and his men waited for the Lady Celeste by the lych-gate.
“I shall pray daily for your speedy recovery, dearest Aunt.” Celeste took her aunt’s hands in both of hers. The moment of parting had arrived, and she felt woefully unprepared for it. She wanted to say something memorable, something loving, but the words hung back like shy choirboys.
“Adieu, my heart.” Marguerite lifted her face for a last kiss. “I shall hold you in my thoughts, and pray they keep you safe in this miserable country.” She returned Celeste’s kisses on both cheeks, then gave herself a little shake. “You, Brother Cuthbert! I have a bone or two to pick with you. First, let us discuss your wine cellar.”
Celeste grinned as she slipped out the door, leaving the poor monk to his own defenses. At least Aunt Marguerite had not again mentioned that awful idea of the wedding night. Perhaps it had merely been rambling talk brought on by one of Brother Cuthbert’s potions for pain. After receiving a blessing from Father Jocelyn and giving Jeremiah a final hug and a kiss, Celeste skipped out to the lych-gate where Gaston waited to hand her up onto her dappled gray palfrey.
An unabashed giggle bubbled up from her throat when she caught sight of Brother Guy. His loose brown robe hiked up to his thighs, he sat astride a meek-looking little donkey. His long bare legs dangled on either side, almost touching the ground. A thunderous expression clouded the brother’s angelic face. When he heard her inadvertent laughter, he stared up at the blue-washed skies and appeared to be already deep in prayer.
Celeste rolled her eyes in silent exasperation at Gaston. Oh, la, la! This adventure would not turn into a somber, psalm-singing journey—not if she could help it.
Chapter Four
How long had it been since he had last ridden beyond the walls of Saint Hugh’s? As the little party crested the hill, Guy looked back over his shoulder at the squat priory buildings. Bluebells had dotted the fields with splashes of spring color when he first came down this road, going in the opposite direction. He recalled that his heart had been as light as the April breezes that ruffled his hair. Now a cold north wind blew across the bare patch of his novice’s tonsure. He had not expected to leave Saint Hugh’s until that distant day when God called him to his final rest and his fellow monks carried his shrouded body out the lych-gate for burial.
A small, traitorous emotion fluttered within his breast as he inhaled the autumn’s earthy smells and the scent of a peasant’s woodsmoke. With a pang of guilt, Guy shook off the sudden pleasure he took in savoring the crisp air, the clean open sky, the harvested fields rolling to the horizon—and the disturbing company of the young lady who insisted upon riding beside him.
He cast Lady Celeste a surreptitious glance out of the corner of his eye and discovered with a sharp jolt that she examined him with an equal keenness.
“Bonjour, mon frère!” she sang in a lilting voice. Her deep purple eyes sparkled as amethyst crystals in a sunbeam. “I mean...” She paused for a moment, her delicate dark brows furrowed with some inner struggle. “Goo morrning, Broozer Guy.” She drew out the English syllables, then cocked her head, reminding him of a clever robin waiting for a bounty of bread crumbs. “Well? Did I not say it correctly?” she asked in French.
Guy blinked. Was she expecting him to give her English lessons? By the look on that lovely young face, he realized that she did. Hadn’t anyone told her about his vow?
She sighed with an uniquely French eloquence. “La, Brother Guy! You need only nod or to shake your head at my pronunciation. Is that too hard for you? It is a little nod, like this.” She demonstrated, with a sly grin turning up the corners of her full mouth. “Or a mere shake, like so.” She moved her head slowly from side to side, her gaze never leaving his face. “Goo morrning, Broozer Guy,” she repeated.
He blew out his cheeks. They were scarcely a mile from the haven of Saint Hugh’s, and already the little witch tempted him. Guy considered the long road ahead of them. Three hundred miles to Snape Castle, by his reckoning. He groaned inwardly.
“Hey-ho, Broozer Guy!” Her words, like warm raindrops, pattered through his musings.
No peace! He shot her his haughtiest look and shook his head. Her smile disappeared, and he was instantly sorry for its loss. She looked as if he had just struck her. Lesson one: Lady Celeste did not take criticism well.
“Was it the good-morning or your name that was not well-done?” she asked in French, with a toss of her head. The accompanying breeze lifted her veil, revealing the wealth of blue-black hair beneath.
Guy sighed again. Her prattle would drive him witless before Shrewsbury. At least her voice was pleasant on the ear.
“Goo morning,” she repeated with a determined glare.
Guy inclined his head slightly. Perhaps she would take her small victory and reward him with blessed silence.
“Bon!” Celeste clapped her hands. “Broozer Guy?” she continued.
Guy shuddered and shook his head. Unhooking his slate from his belt, he let go of Daisy’s reins long enough to print out Brother on it, underlining the th. He held out the slate for her perusal.
“Bro—” The pink tip of her tongue appeared enticingly between her white teeth.
Guy looked away quickly, though he could still see its wetness in his mind’s eye as he listened to her draw out the th for an eternity.
“Bro-th-er, oui?” She finally released the poor word from her mouth.
Guy nodded, then nudged Daisy’s belly with his bare knee. Perhaps the English lesson, which showed every promise of lasting until hell froze over, would be terminated if she saw only his back. He squared his shoulders as he moved ahead of her. Better this way. He didn’t have to look at her, to see those mysterious purple eyes full of secrets, the blush of a midsummer’s rose on her cheeks, or the curve of those luscious, full lips, which—
Guy ground his teeth together. Great Jove! From where had those secular thoughts sprung? He must not permit them to intrude again. He had renounced all cravings of his body six months ago.
A small sound behind him pricked his attention: a pent-up burst of air, followed by several others in quick succession. Was she crying? Had he offended her by riding ahead so abruptly? Churl! He glanced over his shoulder to apologize and saw that Celeste had covered her mouth with one gloved hand. Hearing her suppressed giggles, he realized that he was the source of her mirth. At that moment, a throaty laugh escaped her.
“Your pardon, Brother Guy, but it is too amusing!” She laughed again. Some of the men-at-arms nearby grinned at the contagious sound. “Your poor, poor little donkey! It is very hard to tell if she has four legs—or six! In truth, good Brother, you could walk all the way to Northumberland and still be sitting astride!” Full-blown gales of laughter punctuated this last remark. The escort joined in her mirth.
Guy scowled. Had the chit no respect for a man of the church, that she would laugh at his humble means of transportation? He looked down at Daisy’s neck, with its rough ridge of a mane. Memories of Moonglow, his gray war-horse, rose in his mind. If this minx of a girl had but seen him astride that noble steed, she would never have laughed at him. Nay, she would have been frightened half to death. Smiling at the thought, he kneed Daisy into a faster walk. The donkey, a devil despite her meek facade, blew a loud, wet snort of protest through her nostrils.
“Oh, la, la! I have offended you, Bro-ther Guy?” The lady hurled the th sound after him. “Did they cut out your sense of humor when they shaved your tonsure?”
Guy chose to ignore her. He was bound to escort her to Snape Castle; he was not obliged to like her. In fact, a little mutual aversion might be healthier for the sake of his soul. Gaston, riding ahead of Guy, grinned over his shoulder at him before returning his attention to the meandering roadway ahead.
How wise Father Jocelyn had been to invoke this vow of silence! Had he not been so constrained, Guy knew, he would have broken a number of the holy Commandments by now. His long frame rattling with each plodding step the donkey took, Guy rode in stoic silence. They said the Blessed Mother had ridden a donkey all the way from Nazareth to Bethlehem when she was nine months pregnant with the Holy Infant. How on earth had she stood it?
Behind him, Lady Celeste maintained a surprising silence. Guy relaxed his shoulders. Perhaps she felt some remorse for her laughter and would maintain her own silence until eventide. Guy fervently hoped so.
A fly tickled his ankle. He shook his leg, then squinted against the sun at the milepost ahead. How many miles was it to the next town? The fly returned, this time landing on the back of his calf. Repressing the urge to swat at it, he shook his leg again. Saint Francis of Assisi, patron of his order, enjoined that the monks should respect the natural world and all its creatures, one of which was “Brother Fly.”
I’m being tested, Guy thought as the annoying Brother Fly moved up to roam at the open nape of his neck. He waved his hand at it. Respect all God’s creatures, great and small. The fly hovered at the sensitive skin behind his ear. Guy waggled his head to and fro. Why didn’t Brother Fly pester Lady Chattering Magpie instead? Again he shook his head at the persistent insect. His conscience pricked him. It was wrong of him to wish ill upon the lady—or upon the poor fly, for that matter. She probably would have no compunctions about killing it. The fly landed on the bald patch of his tonsure. Guy brushed his fingers over it. Why couldn’t the creature bother Daisy? Weren’t flies supposed to be drawn to horses and their kin? They deserved each other. The persistent insect tickled his tonsure again.
One of the rear men-at-arms guffawed. Guy heard the other two shush him, though there was an odd tenor to their hissing. Suspicion formed in the back of Guy’s mind. More noises, sounding for all the world like a number of fools’ wind bladders, confirmed his theory. When next Brother Fly touched his ear, Guy whirled in his saddle.
Celeste froze, her eyes wide with surprise. In her hand, she held a long stalk of roadside grass, its downy tip inches from Guy’s shoulder. He opened his mouth, remembered his vow in time, then pressed his lips tightly together.
“Poor Brother Guy!” Celeste murmured, recovering her composure. She held up the offending grass as if it were a queen’s scepter. “What? Nary a smile? Not even the barest movement of your lips? Pah!” She sighed as she tossed the grass away. “Surely a smile is not breaking your vow of silence, good Brother? A smile is very quiet.”
Her eyes sparkled with merry mischief, and her bowed mouth curled upward before it broke into a beguiling grin. Sweet Lord! How could any man resist such a charming aspect—even if she was just a mere girl!
“I ask you this, Brother Guy,” she continued, as her smile increased in warmth. “If the good God above did not want us to laugh, why did he make it so pleasant to do so? Oui, it is easier by far to laugh than to frown, n’est-ce pas?” Cocking her head again, she regarded him through her long dark lashes.
Guy stared at her without moving a facial muscle, though his lips quivered to return her smile with one of his own. By the rood! Celeste had played a goodly trick on him with her piece of grass. In an earlier time, he would have—Nay! He could not give in to her teasing. Their journey together had just begun. He must maintain a firm upper hand. Pride goeth before the fall, a little voice whispered in the back of his mind.
The travelers picnicked in the forenoon by a clear spring that bubbled out of a cleft in the rocks before it continued on its rushing way to the sea, sixty miles to the southwest. The October breeze held the last warmth of the year, and wanton puffs of wind occasionally lifted the light veil covering the lady’s hair. A few stray tendrils of black silk had worked their way loose from the confines of her French hood, and these tantalizing bits of beauty kissed her cheeks as the breezes did what Guy’s fingers longed to do. Catching his wandering thoughts before they continued to their natural conclusion, Guy withdrew from the lady and her men. Seated on a grassy knoll beside the spring, Guy looked heavenward and began to say the office for the sext hour.
Behind him, he heard the low murmur of French, punctuated by male laughter. Daisy and the horses champed on the clumps of grass with noisy satisfaction. Above him, a flock of wild geese winged southward, to the warmer climes of Spain, honking their progress as they flew. An idyllic day. Just the sort of day Guy used to go a-hawking. In his mind’s eye, he saw his favorite female peregrine soar from his wrist into the polished blue overhead, then pause at the zenith of her ascent. She could hang in the air, as if frozen in place—a black dot against the canopy of the sky. Then, folding her wings, she would drop at tremendous speed, snatching a dove in flight, before the gentle bird ever realized her fate.
Guy closed his eyes against the beauty of the day, trying to shut out images of bygone pleasures—pleasures he had happily renounced only a few months ago.
“Brother Guy?” Her husky voice swooped upon his thoughts as surely as his hawk had attacked the dove. Slowly, he opened his eyes.
“Does your vow also mean you do not eat?” Lady Celeste proffered a fine linen napkin on which she had arranged a tempting choice of bread, baked that morning in the priory’s kitchen, wedges of apple, a soft white cheese and a half breast of cold roasted chicken. “If you grow faint with hunger and fall off that most ridiculous animal of yours, none of us will be able to lift you up again. You are far too... large.”
Her gaze roved unashamedly over him, pausing at his shoulders, then moving down across his chest. Though she stood more than three feet away, he swore he could feel a searing heat wherever she looked. The lady blinked, then glanced away, instead of pursuing her assessment below his rough hemp belt. “In truth, you are quite the tallest of our company,” she concluded with a delicate shrug of her shoulders, a careless movement that Guy found too enchanting.
“Your wretched beast has my deepest sympathies” Celeste thrust the food at him. “Eat, good Brother. Here is wine—good French wine.” She held out a small clay cup, brimming with a ruby liquid. The sweet wines of France had been one of his earliest downfalls, when he first encountered them years ago, while attending King Henry at the fabulous Field of Cloth of Gold. Guy’s taste buds quivered treacherously.
Shaking his head, he gently pushed the cup away, pointing to the spring. Her black-winged brows rose high across her forehead. “You drink water? Fah!” She wrinkled her face in disgust as she regarded the sparkling stream gushing a fat jet from the rocks. “The water of England is not drinkable,” she pronounced in clear tones of authority. “And even if it were, this damp climate would not encourage the drinking of it. Here, Brother Hardhead.”
She placed her food and wine on the grass beside him, then turned away with a wide sweep of her burgundy skirts. “Eat, and give thanks.” She tossed the words over her shoulder as she picked her way back through the grass. “Or starve and so go to the devil!”
Guy struggled to repress his grin. What a little spitfire she was! Good! The lady would need every spark of spirit, if she was to survive the gloom of Snape Castle and the hands of her betrothed, Walter Ormond. The sweet taste of her apple turned sour in Guy’s mouth as he remembered the last time he had seen Walter.
Ormond had been near twenty then, though his behavior had suggested five or six years younger. His father’s eldest son, Walter had fancied he cut a fine figure amid Great Harry’s sumptuous court, when, in truth, the nobles had laughed at him behind his back. Their humor had turned to mocking soon enough, and from there to animosity, except for Walter’s small group of preening hangers-on. In a self-indulgent court where the royal pleasure commanded dancing, cardplaying, masques and hearty good times, Walter’s gambling debts, overindulgence in expensive wines and obnoxious behavior had soon drawn disgust within the highest circles.
As to women, the servants had gossiped that young Ormond mounted them like a shameless dog—here, there and everywhere. Such behavior had made a deep impression—and one not long tolerated. Within two short years, Walter had managed to get himself banished not only from court, but from London, as well.
That had been four years ago, and if the rumors wafting around the gaming tables and the tiltyard were to believed, “Ormond’s Spawn” had not yet learned his lesson, but, instead, continued his wastrel ways in the north. There, far from the refinements of the courtly life, Walter had sunk into coarser pursuits.
Guy could barely swallow the crusty bread as he considered the odious embrace into which he led the lady. How long would it take Ormond to curb her saucy humor? When would those twinkling purple eyes be filled with perpetual tears? How soon would the bloom in her cheeks turn to ashen gray and dark circles settle themselves under her eyes? And how many years would it be before the little French bird would give up her light spirit within Snape’s cold stone walls?
Unthinking, Guy snatched the cup from the grass and downed its contents in one ferocious gulp. The Bordeaux’s unaccustomed tang smarted, making his eyes water. By Saint George, he hadn’t meant to drink her wine! Nor to eat her good cheese and sweet fruit. He had promised himself to dine only on bread and water, in penance for his wandering thoughts. He caught himself before he dashed the cup against the rocks. What injury had the cup done him? Nay, ’twas the little temptress’s spell that wove itself about him. A trill of her laughter brought him back to the present. With a quick prayer, asking for strength and forgiveness, Guy rose and ambled back to the group.
“Eh bien!” Gaston grinned at the sight of the empty cup in Guy’s hand. “It is good you eat and drink well. Forgive my bluntness, Brother Guy, but from the looks of those shoulders, you would have made a better knight for your king than for the good Lord. Those hands were made to draw a bow, hold a sword or stroke a—” Gaston broke off with an abrupt fit of coughing that left his countenance even ruddier than before.
Maintaining his composure, Guy stared over the sergeant’s shoulder, as if he had no idea what the remainder of Gaston’s observation might have been. The lady, either unmindful of the implied remark or choosing to ignore it, stood and brushed a few crumbs from her gown.
“Do not tease the good brother so, Gaston,” she remarked mildly, attacking the th sound with a sharp thrust of her tongue. “His shoulders must be wide enough to carry the weight of all our sins with him when he prays for us. N’est-ce pas, Brother Guy?” A flutter of mirth danced on her lips.
Inside the long sleeves of his robe, Guy clenched his fists, digging his nails into his palms. His heart hammered against his chest. How long, O Lord, will I be able to resist her? When his breathing became more steady, he pointed to the sky, then to the horses.
“Oui, he is right, my lady.” Gaston gave her his arm. “The sun does not wait for us. We must hurry on, if we are to reach a decent inn before dark.”
“I hope the days to come are as pleasant as this one,” the lady remarked as Gaston helped her into the saddle. She arched one eyebrow at Guy when he settled himself once more on Daisy’s bony back. “I do enjoy such gladsome company. And so we shall make merry all the way to Snape Castle.” She urged her horse into a walk.
I should be escorting you to my home, Lissa, and not into the maw of the Ormonds.
That thought from nowhere seared his mind like a flaming arrow. Its sharpness and heat so amazed him, Guy reined Daisy to a halt and found himself sneezing in the dust of the mended wagon as the lady and her luggage ambled past him along the king’s post road.
By the holy Book, was he fast losing his wits?
Chapter Five
“For shame, Brother Guy!” Celeste clucked her tongue at him. “Why must you frown on such a pretty afternoon? God saw fit to give you a...” She paused as she surveyed him intently. “A passable face, but you mar it with a sour look.”
Guy could only grimace his frustration. Couldn’t she leave him alone? Why didn’t she talk to Gaston, or one of the other men? Guy squinted into the sun. Two more hours of good light before they would have to start looking for lodging. Surely she could do something else in that time besides concentrating her entire attention upon him. Where were her manners? Hadn’t anyone ever told her she shouldn’t make personal remarks, especially to men she barely knew?
“Poor Brother Guy,” Celeste continued ignoring his unsociability. “Perhaps the wine at noon did not agree with his digestion. What think you, Starlight?” Leaning over her horse’s neck, she spoke into its pricked ear. All the while, her eyes twinkled with lavender amusement.
What in the name of all the saints was a mere man supposed to do? She knew he wasn’t allowed to speak. Guy ducked to avoid her pretty eyes. A girl like that shouldn’t possess such winsome weapons. In truth, Guy could not recall another pair of eyes that had glowed with such a joy of life. One glance from her and a man could declare himself drunk from the experience. Her eyes were beautiful, so full of fire, so full of passion, so full of the promise of—
God forgive him! What was he doing meditating on the eyes of a little black-haired temptress? No doubt his thoughts wandered because he had not been near a woman for over six months. In truth, women bored him, didn’t they? What was more, not one of his former dalliances possessed an ounce of virtue or honor. Nor did this lady, who was not only female—but French! Guy kicked Daisy in the flanks, much harder than he intended.
The donkey snorted at the sudden command for more speed. Uttering an offensive sound not fit for polite company, Daisy lowered her head and dug her hooves into the dirt of the road. Before Guy realized her intent, she kicked out with her back legs, tossing her rider over her ears. Guy landed headfirst in a ditch. For almost a full minute, his ears rang with the chiming of a hundred cathedral bells and he saw swirling stars instead of the blue sky.
As the clanging subsided and the heavens regained their correct color, Guy realized that his loose gown had fallen around his ears. The cold air blowing across his bare backside told him that a very private part of his anatomy had made an unexpected appearance. A rich peal of feminine laughter confirmed his worst suspicions.
Rolling over, he struggled to sit up, despite the fact that the landscape tended to tilt sideways.
“Magnifique!” Celeste laughed with unabashed humor. Gaston and the men-at-arms joined her. “Forsooth, Brother Guy, I have never seen such... such... ” Another fit of merriment overcame her.
A string of dormant oaths crowded behind Guy’s lips as he pulled himself into a standing position. He clamped his teeth tightly together to keep back the tide of his righteous anger.
“Such a beautiful moon in the middle of the day!” The chit managed to complete her sentence before erupting into another gale of laughter.
The tips of Guy’s ears burned as a hot flush spread itself up from his neck. Perdition take the girl! For a farthing, he would haul the little vixen off her horse, turn her over his knee and soundly administer a well-deserved chastisement to her backside. How dare she laugh at him!
Guy clambered out of the ditch. His fingers shook with suppressed rage as he snatched up the reins of the innocent-looking donkey. Turning his back to her, he slowly remounted the creature. Surely Father Jocelyn could not have foreseen this situation when he placed the novice under his vow of silence. Guy itched to let loose a torrent of words that would truly shock the brazen minx.
“Peace, my lady,” Gaston hissed at her. “See? You have offended the good brother. What would your aunt say to this behavior?”
Celeste managed to stifle her laughter in a series of hiccups before answering. “Gaston! You know very well what she would do. While she scolded me with her tongue, her eyes would have enjoyed the same view as much as mine. Perhaps even more so. In truth, I have never seen...”
Gaston. cleared his throat loudly, then glared at the other men, who were still sniggering at the memory of the monk’s naked show. “You crawling vermin!” he shouted. “Are you paid to idle about? Be off with you!”
He punctuated his order with several blistering oaths. Just listening to their richness and variety made Guy feel better. It pleased him even more to see how Celeste blushed at Gaston’s curses. Good! If the girl was going to act like a common serving wench, she deserved to have her sensitivities shocked in return.
Holding his head high and squaring his shoulders, Guy nudged the now-placid Daisy into a walk. Laugh at his backside? No woman of his considerable experience had ever found his nakedness a rude jest! They had complimented his goodly proportions and firmness in all areas. They had squealed and giggled with delight upon personal inspection of his nether regions. Most particularly, their supple fingers had given pleasurable approval to his hindquarters. Not once had any woman, high-born or lowborn, laughed at the sight of his most sensitive area—until now.
What a sweep of vanity!
A niggling little voice whispered its rebuke. True, vanity was sin, and he should pay the price for it. But must her amusement be his penance? Guy swallowed the bile that lurked in the base of his throat. Perhaps he should say a few prayers to calm his soul’s turmoil. Upon reflection, he amended that thought. He needed to storm heaven’s gate with a quiver full of litanies begging forgiveness for his unseemly thoughts and beseeching patience to deal with his charge.
“Good Brother Guy.” Celeste’s husky voice spoke close behind his shoulder. Gone was her comic pronunciation of his name. Did he detect a new note in her tone?
“Good Brother, please forgive me,” she continued. Her lilting accent made the language sing. Guy glanced in her direction.
If anything, Celeste’s eyes looked even more enormous—twin pools of crushed violets, watered by a sheen of tears that he could see hovering about her thick lashes. The shameless jade of a moment ago had now changed into a fairy creature. Her pale skin, those teary eyes and her rosy mouth, trembling with her contrition, made Celeste appear like the virgin in a tapestry who lured the unsuspecting unicorn to her side. A mixture of emotions played havoc with Guy’s body. In some places he hardened and burned, while in others he melted into the folds of his woolen gown. His vocal cords begged to murmur sweet nothings in her ear. He swallowed again.
“Frère Guy,” she entreated, leaning across her horse to him. He stared straight ahead. “Bless me, good Brother, for I have sinned most grievously. Forgive my laughter at your misfortune, and my disgraceful conduct afterward.”
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her mouth twitch at the remembrance of that very behavior for which she now sought forgiveness. Licking her lips with that enticing pink tongue, she wiped away the suggestion of an uncontrite giggle.
“I am heartily sorry for having offended you, particularly as you are a man of God. Please forgive me, Brother Guy, and give me a penance, that I may show you my true sorrow for the transgression.”
Penance? Sweet Saint Anne! She was not merely asking for forgiveness, but for the full sacramental rite. Cold beads of perspiration popped out on his forehead. Did Celeste think him to be a priest, and so felt her laughter a true sin of disrespect, perhaps even sacrilege? Guy’s momentary shock melted into something entirely different—a smug anticipation of revenge.
Gravely he nodded at Celeste, then made the sign of the cross over her bowed head. Wicked! the little voice twittered in Guy’s conscience. Not so. He told himself he was merely giving her what she craved, absolution, as well as what she needed—a lesson in humility.
“Merci, bon frère. And for my penance?”
How could he possibly deny her request? Taking out his slate and chalk, he quickly wrote on it, then handed it over to her.
“Ma foi! Fifty Ave Marias?”
Guy tried not to smile at her appalled expression.
