Silent Knight

by Tori Phillips

  “Then Walter Ormond will be a rich man indeed,” murmured the prior, though a wing tip of apprehension brushed against his soul.

  The morning air smelled fresh and clean when Guy emerged from the darkness of the chapel, where he had spent a cold, dank night lying facedown on the flagstones. The sun’s rays fell with welcome warmth on his chilled skin and robe, still damp from the rain of the day before. Guy moved stiffly across the cloister toward a low gate. A day spent tending the monastery’s herb garden would be good for both his sore body and his troubled mind. He wished Father Jocelyn had let him wear a hair shirt while he prayed on the chapel floor. Its rough discomfort might have banished the visions of deep violet eyes and flowing black hair that had danced through Guy’s meditations during his nocturnal penance. He hoped the troubling lady was gone by now—on her way to wherever it was. Anywhere but here at Saint Hugh’s.

  Silver, rippling laughter brought Guy to an abrupt halt. His heart skipped its normal rhythm and strained against the confines of his chest. No member of Saint Hugh’s Priory laughed with such crystal sweetness, not even the youngest choirboy. Stepping back into the shade of a pillared archway, Guy peered over Brother Timothy’s prized rosebushes. Seated on a stone bench not ten feet away, the temptress who had plagued his prayers now toyed with Jeremiah, the kitchen’s ill-tempered cat.

  “La, puss-puss,” the lady crooned, stroking the sensitive whiskers of the black-and-white mouser with a long piece of straw. “What a fine, handsome fellow you arel”

  The cat’s docile behavior surprised Guy. He sucked in his breath when he saw the lady lean over and pick up the overfed creature. Guy tensed, expecting Jeremiah to lash out with his claws bared.

  “Truly, you would make an admirable knight, if cats could wear armor,” she continued, settling him on her lap. “You are such an elegant puss-puss,” she continued in admiring tones, her fingers moving through Jeremiah’s thick fur in long, even strokes.

  Guy shivered as he watched her graceful hands. Should he warn her of the cat’s irascible nature? Yet that would mean he would have to speak to her again, to look into those beguiling eyes once more. The short encounter of yesterday had been enough to send his thin defenses crashing down.

  Perhaps it would be best for the sake of Guy’s troubled soul if the cat did scratch the girl. Then she would go away, or at least leave the cloister rose garden. Only a little scratch would do — the merest swipe. Not enough to draw blood, nor to injure her creamy skin. Just a suggestion of a scratch. Perhaps only the sight of a half-open talon. Guy bit back his alarm as the lady, heedless of the risk she took, swung Jeremiah over her shoulder and draped him around her neck like a fur collar.

  “See,mon chat?” The lady picked up a small book, bound in dark blue leather, that had been lying on the bench beside her. “You would look most magnificent, I think, if you were dressed as the Knight of the Loyal Heart.” Absently, she rubbed Jeremiah behind his ears. “See this picture? You would wear the helm of the winged heart most nobly, oui?”

  Closing his eyes, the cat nudged his head against the palm of her hand. Guy could almost hear the creature purring. Perhaps Jeremiah was befuddled by her French. Maybe he had never been this close to a woman before. In any event, he wasn’t acting normally. In fact, the cat looked as if he had found paradise within the dark tresses that peeped from under the lady’s sheer veil. Guy trembled with indignation, though he could not tear his gaze away from the simple domestic scene in front of him. That woman—nay, that chit of a girl—was the devil’s handmaiden, brought here to seduce the souls of this community of celibates. She even wove her witchcraft on the bellicose Jeremiah!

  “La, dearest cat, you would save the poor damsel, Sweet Grace, from the evil power of the awful sorceress Denial, wouldn’t you?” The lady rubbed her cheek against the cat’s fur, as she turned to another page in her book and held it up for Jeremiah’s inspection. Even at a distance, Guy could see the exquisite detail of the illustration, rendered in jewel colors and bright gilding.

  A book of romance and troubadour songs. Strange devotions for a well-bred young girl to read, especially within the walls of a holy monastery. Guy knew he should turn away in disgust. Every moment that he lingered in the shadows of the archway only heightened the danger to his vows.

  Her hands fluttered over the cat like two butterflies in the sun. A sudden breeze threatened to lift the velvet French coif from her head. Guy caught himself wishing it would. He swore under his breath, then, aghast at what he had just said, whispered a hurried prayer after his oath.

  By the Holy Grail, what was happening to him? Who was this creature but yet another one of those empty-headed females whom he sought to escape once and for all time behind these gray stone walls? He had had enough of women in all shapes, sizes, social orders and states of undress in the past twelve years to convince himself that not one of them was worth a groat.

  Ever since Anne Boleyn had caught the king’s roving eye, Great Harry’s lust had doomed to extinction whatever shreds of honor and virtue still lingered in the corners of Westminster Palace. Guy counted himself well out of it. Now, when he least expected it, temptation played in the October sunshine. And his body—not to mention his very soul—responded like a starving man at a feast. Angrily he stalked toward the herb garden, taking care that he made no noise to attract the attention of those fascinating violet eyes.

  Not even the bewitched Jeremiah looked up.

  “What?” Guy sputtered, breaking into a sweat, though the evening air was cool. He cast a sidelong glance at Brother Cuthbert, who stood behind the prior’s chair. No trace of humor glinted in the older man’s gray eyes. Guy considered throwing himself to his knees, but thought the gesture might seem too dramatic within the confines of the prior’s office. “I pray you, Father, do not lay this burden on me!”

  Father Jocelyn barely hid his smile. “How now? A burden? I should think you would welcome a chance to get out and enjoy the countryside. Mother Nature has trimmed herself in her best finery before cruel winter’s onslaught. ’Twould only be for a few weeks.”

  “But why me?” Guy raked his fingers through the fringes of his thick blond hair. “I am only a novice. Perhaps it would be better for someone who has already taken his vows to go—someone who has been here a long time and would like a short holiday.” He glanced over to Brother Cuthbert.

  Father Jocelyn coughed behind his hand. “Perhaps, but I think you are the best choice, Brother Guy. You understand French, and you know the lay of the land well. Northumberland is your home, is it not?”

  Guy swallowed with difficulty. “Aye, Father, but...”

  The prior held up his hand for silence. Guy bowed his head, though he could feel his heart thumping uncomfortably under his robe.

  “Lady Celeste has already experienced a most difficult journey. In faith, I am tempted to return her to her home, but the lady won’t hear of it.”

  Guy looked up, raising one brow in question. Obviously, the girl hadn’t a sensible bone in her body.

  “She tells me that her family’s honor demands that she go on, come rack or ruin—which I fear may happen at the rate she is proceeding.”

  “But, Father...”

  The prior continued as if he hadn’t heard Guy’s disrespectful interruption. “Now that her aunt must stay behind, Lady Celeste needs some sort of chaperon, and that, Brother Guy, you will provide. No one will think it amiss if they see her traveling in the company of a priest.”

  “Priest!” Guy erupted. He had never intended to take holy orders. He wasn’t worthy—not after the hell-bent life he had led. “Father, I am the furthest thing from the priesthood.”

  Father Jocelyn gently shook his head in silent reproof. “It matters not what you truly are, so long as you are what you seem to be. To the world you are a man of God, and therefore above reproach.”

  “And the lady—?” Guy tried not to think of her voice, like exotic incense, and her hair, the color of silken midnight.
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  “Lady Celeste will be none the wiser.” The prior’s lips curled at the corners. “Your virtue will be safe with her.”

  Safe? Those liquid violet eyes and those lush lips, like satin rosebuds, promised scant safety to any mortal man. The prior had no idea what he was asking. Guy dropped to his knees. “Do not make me bear this cross, Father.” Hearing his own words, Guy realized he sounded a little overblown, but perhaps the prior would be moved by his biblical plea.

  Father Jocelyn stood and slid his hands into the wide folds of his sleeves. “When you joined our community six months ago, Brother Guy, you promised obedience in all things.”

  “Aye, Father.” Guy bowed his head and shut his eyes, trying to blot out what he knew was coming.

  “Now I am commanding you to escort the Lady Celeste de Montcalm and her men safety to Sir Roger Ormond of Snape Castle, near Morpeth, in Northumberland. There she will wed Sir Roger’s son, Walter. After the ceremony, you will return here. Do I make myself clear in this matter, Brother Guy?”

  “You do, Father.” Guy tried to control the tremor that shivered down his spine. Walter Ormond of Snape? Sweet Jesu! Nay! ’Twould be flinging a gentle dove into the talons of a hawk.

  “Excellent!” Father Jocelyn nodded in satisfaction. Brother Cuthbert merely sucked in his breath.

  Guy wet his lips. “But, Father, I fear for my soul to travel in the company of such a...such a lady as that.” He bit back the urge to bellow at his superior.

  The prior chuckled. “I admit she is a most beauteous lady, Brother Guy. I am glad to see you have not lost your keen perception. As to your soul, I will lay on you one further commandment.” He paused as he glanced at Brother Cuthbert.

  Guy waited tensely. The uneven flagstones bit deeper into his knees. He again licked his dry lips. He had a feeling he wasn’t going to like whatever the prior had in mind.

  “At vespers tonight, you will make a solemn vow of silence. Henceforth, you will not speak, nor utter a sound, until Lady Celeste’s wedding day,” Father Jocelyn pronounced over him. A note of humor softened the tone of his voice.

  Guy lifted his chin with firm resolve. “Aye, I will, Father Jocelyn.” If he couldn’t speak to her, there was a chance he could evade her wiles and snares. “And tonight, for my penance—”

  “What penance do you think you need now, my son?” A warm twinkle danced in the prior’s eyes. “You were up all last night at prayer. You need your rest tonight, for you will depart with the lady at first light. Her wagon is repaired, and time is of the essence. The good weather will not hold for long.”

  “Perhaps I could wear a hair shirt?” Guy suggested. Pain. He needed pain to keep his thoughts from wandering down the path of sweet perdition.

  “That is hardly necessary, Brother Guy. I think riding astride Daisy for several weeks will be penance enough for even the worst of sins.” Before Guy could make a further suggestion, Father Jocelyn traced the sign of the cross over him. “Go in peace, my son.”

  Guy rose, bowed to both the prior and his assistant, then let himself out the door. A myriad of thoughts tumbled through him as he fled for the silence of the chapel. By the rood! How was he going to survive the next month? Though the words of his prayers poured from his lips, he saw in his mind the beguiling beauty of Lady Celeste de Montcalm—and the well-remembered sneer of Walter Ormond.

  From the side door of the chapel, the two Franciscans watched their newest novice wrestle with himself.

  “Do you truly think it wise to send young Guy off with the lady?” Cuthbert murmured in an undertone.

  Father Jocelyn nodded slowly, his eyes never leaving the kneeling form praying before the sanctuary. “Aye, Brother, I do. ’Tis for the best.”

  Brother Cuthbert raised one eyebrow so high, it nearly lost itself in the mouse-gray fringe encircling his head. “How so?”

  The prior tapped his finger against his nose. “Let us say that I have my suspicions concerning the sincerity of young Cavendish’s vocation.”

  “But surely the lad is sincere. In the garden, in the chapel—he is constantly on his knees!” Cuthbert blustered in a whisper.

  “Peace, good Brother. Time will tell.” The prior smiled at his old friend. They had entered the monastery together as boys, nearly thirty-five years ago. “When you and I took our final vows, we did so with great joy—running to our Lord. I suspect Brother Guy is running away from himself.”

  Chapter Three

  “You sent for me, Aunt Marguerite?” Celeste peered around the heavy wooden door of the guest infirmary.

  Propped against several thick muslin-covered pillows, the older woman smiled and held out her hand to her niece.

  “Come in quickly, Lissa, and shut that door tight behind you. Fah! This damp weather will kill me long before any horse and wagon.” A chuckle softened her words.

  Celeste did as she was told, then drew up a small three-legged stool beside her aunt’s bed. Marguerite’s skin had regained a healthier color, and Celeste could tell by the brightness of her eyes that her aunt’s tart humor had returned to its full strength. The older woman held her niece’s hand as she regarded her by the light of the tallow candle on the bedside table. Celeste glanced at the clay pitcher and cup there.

  “Would you like me to pour you some water?” she offered, making a move to do so. Marguerite merely tightened her grip on Celeste’s fingers.

  “Water? Do I look like a fish? Non, but that know-it-all Brother Cuthbert thinks I am!” She sniffed loudly. “He means to drown me at the first opportunity. But never fear, Lissa. He has met his match!”

  Celeste hid the smile that plucked at the corners of her lips. The unsuspecting brother had indeed encountered a formidable opponent, she feared, and she wished him all the courage he could muster. She suspected that Aunt Marguerite would sorely try the man’s patience, not to mention his sanctity, in the coming months, while she recovered from her injuries.

  “I shall miss you, ma petite, ” Marguerite said with surprising gentleness.

  Celeste swallowed back a tremor of sadness at these words. All afternoon she had tried to push away the idea of continuing on her journey alone. Now, in the depths of the night shadows, the reality of the situation had to be confronted, just as she had faced her fears of ghosts lurking in the dark corners of her home in the Loire valley. Celeste leaned forward and kissed her aunt on the cheek. Her skin felt cool and dry to the touch.

  “And I shall miss your chiding tongue, your scolding frowns and your many instructions concerning my deportment. La! I never thought I would say those words, dear Aunt, but they are true. You are a dear part of me.”

  Celeste banished a small sob that hovered in the back of her throat. She wouldn’t show weakness now. She had many miles to travel, alone in this inhospitable country, and she couldn’t let her aunt know how very frightened she was at that prospect.

  Marguerite squeezed her hand again. “Humphl You, spin a pretty tale by the firelight—almost as farfetched as those romantic ballads you love so much.” Her voice caught. “I believe I will have a sip of that marsh water, after all,” she said, brusquely waving at the pitcher.

  Celeste poured half a cup and held it out.

  The patient took it and sipped in silence. Celeste fidgeted with one of the embroidered roses on her yellow satin skirt. The candle sputtered, a thin wisp of smoke curling back onto itself as it rose toward the low plastered ceiling. After a strained silence, Marguerite handed back the cup.

  “Surely they must have wine in this place. I shall speak to that Brother Cuthbert about it. He shall know my mind on the subject by the terce bell tomorrow, I assure you!” Marguerite nodded to her niece.

  “I pray you have mercy on the poor man,” Celeste replied, pitying Brother Cuthbert even more.

  “Mercy?” Her aunt looked surprised at the very idea. “Lissa, am I not always the soul of understanding, tact and mercy?”

  Celeste cleared her throat. “So you have often told my sisters and
me,” she countered as diplomatically as possible.

  “And so I shall be.” Another uneasy silence draped itself over them. Celeste made a move to leave, thinking her aunt needed to sleep, but the older woman’s grip remained firm around Celeste’s hand. “Sit still, child, for I have much to tell you, and there is so little time.”

  Puzzled, Celeste leaned forward. “Oui, Aunt? I am listening.”

  Marguerite patted her cheek. “You were always such a good girl. It is a pity that my brother was too pigheaded not to see it.”

  Celeste shifted uncomfortably on the hard stool. All her life she had tried to please her formidable father, to win his love with her cheerful banter and her singing, which everyone else said was sweet as a meadowlark’s on a May morning. Though it had never been spoken aloud, Celeste knew that she was far from the chevalier’s favorite daughter. “Papa has a great many things to attend to,” she murmured in his defense.

  “Bah! Let it be said plainly now, for I do not know when we shall meet again on this earth. Your father wished for a son, and when you, the fifth daughter, arrived, he was angered like a small boy who has been denied a promised sweetmeat. It is a scandal the way he has treated you—sending you off to this godforsaken place to be wed to a stranger who probably can’t even speak passable French!”

  Celeste stared into the candle’s flame, trying to conjure up the face of this unknown bridegroom. The picture of Lancelot in a book in her father’s library swam into her imagination.

  “The Ormonds are a noble family,” Celeste whispered to the flickering point of light. “Walter will possess the qualities of a fine lord, I am sure.”