Guy released a long breath and flexed his shoulder muscles. Then he shook the wandering insect from the depths of his clothing. If Lissa had said anything else, or stayed next to him for one more minute... He let the thought pass unfinished. He felt exhausted from the labor of controlling his temptations. Glancing down at the bundle on the paving stones, he felt his empty stomach rumble with anticipation. He smiled in the dark.
Surely the good Lord didn’t want this particular offering left on his doorstep. Nor did Guy seriously think the Divine Master would object if his servant disposed of it in an appropriate manner. After all, Guy reasoned as he picked up the bulging packet, one should never reject an act of charity, and wastefulness was indeed a sin.
After a final “Amen,” Guy let himself out the side door. As he spread his feast on a stone bench in the cloister garden, he could have sworn he heard Father Jocelyn whispering, “God works in strange and mysterious ways, my son.”
Chapter Ten
After hearing mass said by the resident priest — which relieved Guy’s midnight anxieties — the travelers left Shrewsbury as a wet gray dawn rose over the walls of the castle. The abbess had said nothing more to Guy about Celeste’s escort, and he was glad to see the town sink into miniature behind them.
“Achoo!”
Hearing Celeste sneeze for the twelfth time, Guy tugged on Daisy’s reins, finally bringing the stubborn animal to a halt. He waited for the girl to draw alongside of him.
“Ma foi!” She said by way of greeting, shaking out her handkerchief. “This wretched cold and damp! I think you will not sing at my wedding, Brother Guy, but at my funeral.” She dimpled at the thought. “But I forget, you will not sing at all, Brother Guy, will you? You will stand silently by like a great stone angel with your wings folded and your head bowed. Quel dommage! Though in truth, I have never seen an angel quite so tall as you. Then again, I have never seen an angel at all.” Another loud sneeze cut off any further observations.
Guy frowned at the sound. Lissa’s eyes looked as red and runny as her nose. Yet she made no complaint of her ill health. God’s teeth! Every other woman he had known, including his own mother, took to her bed at the slightest sign of indisposition — or even the pretext of one. Yet this delicate French flower, unused to the harsher English weather, continued on, when it was evident she was unwell.
How fare you? he wrote on his slate, then held it out for her to read. The light rain that had accompanied them since they left the convent softened the chalk letters into a smudge.
Celeste waved her handkerchief like a lace-and-linen flag. “It is naught but a stuffiness in my head.” She leaned forward and confided to Guy, “In truth, it is a blessing, for my men are in much need of a change of clothing, and now I do not have to smell them, oui?” She sneezed again.
Guy’s frown deepened. Lissa might jest about her funeral, but its possibility was all too real in his mind’s eye. They had to stop somewhere for a few days, to give her a chance to recover her health. The weather would grow worse as they went farther north.
“Ah, Brother Guy! Do not frown so! My aunt Marguerite used to tell my little brother that if he made wicked faces God would make them permanent. You might try a little smile, oui?”
Guy bit the inside of his cheek, to keep from complying with her request. He was in no mood to banter. He must find shelter, and soon. He kicked Daisy into a jarring trot. Celeste’s next sneeze followed behind him.
“D’accord.” Gaston nodded when he read Guy’s slate. “I agree we must stop for my lady’s sake, but where?”
Guy stared at the large black stallion Gaston rode. Dared he ask to borrow the animal for an hour?
When Gaston read Guy’s request, he threw back his head and laughed loudly, which startled several of the men riding nearby. “That is a good jest, Brother Guy! Do you know the name of this beauty here?” He stroked the horse’s neck fondly as he spoke. “Black Devil. A churchman riding the Devil? Oui, this I would like to see. But, my friend, be forewarned. He is well named, for he is very strong and swift. Can you handle such a mount?” Gaston cast a baleful look at Daisy.
Guy permitted a small smile to curl the corners of his mouth. Gaston did indeed have a fine horse, but it couldn’t hold a candle to his own gray charger, Moonglow. In his memory, Guy could still hear his proud steed’s hooves as they pounded down the lists at Hampton Court, leaving his opponents lying in the dust of King Henry’s tiltyard.
Guy slid off Daisy’s back and held out the reins to Gaston. Behind them, Emile smothered a chuckle. Gaston threw the man a savage look. Ahead of them, Celeste sneezed again, her cloaked shoulders shaking with the effort. Spurred by the sound, Gaston dismounted and snatched up Daisy’s reins.
“Try not to break your neck, Brother, for I have enough worries as it is with my lady. And you.” He shot another stern glance at the grinning men behind him. “If I hear but one word out of any of you malt-worms, I will skewer your livers for my supper, mark me well.” With that, he threw his leg over Daisy’s back.
Daisy flattened her ears at the unaccustomed weight and bawled a protest. Guy tried to hide his excitement as he leapt into Gaston’s plain but serviceable saddle. How long had it been since he last felt a real horse between his legs? His muscles remembered exactly what to do. Guy’s heart exulted at the feeling. Then, a moment later, he regretted his vanity.
Forgive me, Lord, but ’tis for the lady’s sake that I do this. Aye, he thought as he wheeled the great horse and shot down the road ahead, but you should not take such earthly pleasure in it. Leaving Gaston’s final admonition hanging in the misty air, he overtook Celeste. A small burst of manly pride tickled him as he noted her stunned look when he sped past her.
I promise to do a midnight vigil as my penance. Lord, why did you make such magnificent animals if we weren’t expected to enjoy riding them? After this heady experience, Guy knew that returning to Daisy would be the hardest penance of all.
Two hours later, Celeste found herself tucked up in a high four-poster bed, with clean sheets, and a hot brick wrapped in red flannel at her feet. Guy’s search for a shelter had been more than fruitful. Burke Crest, home of Sir James Foxmore and his lady wife, Eleanor, had lain less than three miles down the road. Celeste didn’t bother to wonder how Guy had made himself understood by these good people. It did not matter now. Her hair and feet were dry, the room was warm, and Lady Eleanor was goodness itself. Best of all, the lady spoke a pleasant French.
“La, ma petite!” Lady Eleanor clucked to her guest as she held out a posset of warmed milk, honey and wine. “What do those men of yours know about women, I ask you? Just because they like to ride all day in the rain, that doesn’t mean that you must!”
Celeste sipped from the steaming mug, allowing the delicious concoction to flow down her scratchy throat. “Non, Lady Eleanor, it is not Gaston’s fault, but mine. I have been too long on your country roads, and I am sure by now my betrothed must think I have run away from my father’s agreement — and taken my dowry with me.” She smiled ruefully when she thought of the pittance she carried. “And we must arrive in the north country before the snows, I am told.”
Lady Eleanor crossed her arms over her rounded middle — she was expecting her fifth child early in the New Year — and slipped her hands into her wide oversleeves. “What you say about the snow is true, but if you do not get rid of that cold, you will not have to worry about going anywhere at all.”
“You are most kind to take such good care of me.” Celeste wiggled her toes against the hot flannel. So much better than her damp, muddy boots! “I do not wish to intrude upon your hospitality.”
Lady Eleanor waved off Celeste’s further objections. “Fie, child! Your visit comes in good time. Since I have been unable to ride, I have not seen a new face to speak to in a month of Sundays, at the very least. I am perishing for want of company. You are an answer to a prayer.”
Celeste hid a yawn behind her hand. “As to that, you will have to t
hank Brother Guy. He is the one in charge of our prayers. Indeed, he does nothing but pray.”
Lady Eleanor smiled, her brown eyes twinkling with secret merriment. “Aye, perhaps he has much to answer for, and is making amends for his past life.”
Celeste detected a story behind that remark, and the smile that accompanied it. Her fatigue momentarily forgotten, she sat up against the bolster and negarded her hostess.
“You have met Brother Guy before?”
Still smiling, Lady Eleanor nodded her head, then settled herself on the bed beside Celeste. “We saw him at court not a year ago, and he was a much different young man then.”
“Mon Dieu! I did not know that he had ever been to court. I suppose he was the chaplain for one of the queen’s ladies?” Celeste did not like that idea. She much preferred to consider Brother Guy as hers alone. Sweet Jesu! Why am I acting like a jealous maiden? She bit her lower lip in shame, though she leaned closer as Lady Eleanor continued her tale.
“Chaplain?” The lady rocked the mattress with her laughter. “Aye, there were many ladies who sought his ministrations, but not, I fear, of the spiritual kind.”
“What mean you?” Saints above! Was Brother Guy some manner of rogue priest, who had been banished to that priory in the middle of nowhere because of his ungodly behavior? Celeste couldn’t believe that.
Lady Eleanor started to say something, then laughed again and patted Celeste’s hand. “Nay, it is nothing to concern you. Your Brother Guy is a fine and honorable man, and you are well protected in his company. Aye, my child, you are as safe with him as with Saint Michael himself. Lie back now, for I see that sleep plays about your eyelids.” She stood and smoothed the coverlet over Celeste. “When you are feeling better, we shall talk again.”
Though Lady Eleanor’s remarks danced through her mind as maids about a flowered maypole, Celeste found she could not stay awake. Without quite realizing when it happened, she slipped into the first sound sleep she had enjoyed since leaving her aunt at Saint Hugh’s Priory. A tall knight in silver armor galloped through her dreams, astride Gaston’s Black Devil. A pair of golden wings sprouted between his shoulder blades, and his lance was a long tongue of blazing fire. When he paused upon a green hilltop and removed his helm, Celeste saw the unmistakable golden curls and brilliant blue eyes of Brother Guy.
“Will you take some cider? ’Tis fresh-pressed, and very sweet to a dry throat.” Sir James held out a brown jug to Guy. When the monk shook his head, his host only nodded and smiled. “So, I see you have taken your new vocation seriously. There were a great many at court who wagered that you would not last a month in the bosom of the church. Not when there were so many other bosoms...”
A warm flush stole over Guy’s face, and he turned away so that Sir James would not notice his embarrassment. It was most fortunate, for Lissa’s sake, that Burke Crest had been near at hand. At the same time, the old family friendship with Sir James put Guy in the awkward position of having his past resurrected before his eyes.
“Sit down, Guy, and take your ease.” Sir James waved at a cushioned bench opposite him. “’Tis good to see you again, though by my troth, I think you have lost some weight since you’ve taken the cowl. Don’t they feed you at Saint Hugh’s, or have you renounced food, as well as women?”
Guy settled himself on the bench. When he glanced at the knight’s eyes, he saw them twinkling with good humor. He answered Sir James’s remark with a wry smile.
“Aye, that’s more like it!” Sir James poured himself another cup of cider, then pushed the jug invitingly toward Guy. “You look more like your fair mother now, though that good lady would be much distraught if she had as bald a patch as you. Is she well?”
Guy swallowed, then nodded. How could he tell this kindly gentleman how surprised she had been when he announced his intention of becoming a monk? Nor could he forget the anger of his father, who had ranted and raved about Wolf Hall that the king’s best knight was also the king’s biggest lackwit. Since entering the Franciscan order, Guy had received only one message from his family — a note of greeting from his mother on his twenty-eighth birthday.
Sir James chuckled. “I knew who you were the moment I clapped mine eyes on you. By the Book! The sight of you riding into my courtyard on that great horse, with your robes hitched up around your hips—Why, my scullery maids will not forget that sight for a season!”
Guy stared down at his sandals. This embarrassment was his just punishment for taking such pleasure in that glorious hell-for-leather ride over the countryside. He promised to offer up his prayers, as well as Sir James’s good dinner, for the soul of any maid who might have been tempted to wanton thoughts by the unseemly display of his bare legs and his other manly parts.
Sir James cleared his throat, attracting Guy’s attention. “Speaking of maids, that is a fair young lady whom you escort, and you did right well to bring her to us. From the looks of her, I’d say you have been driving her as hard as you drive yourself. That old soldier of hers told me part of the story, but his accent is difficult for me to comprehend. Do I understand she is destined to marry that Ormond spawn?”
Guy’s eyes narrowed at the sudden harshness in Sir James’s tone. Taking his chalk, he quickly scribbled on his slate.
“What news of the Ormonds?” Sir James repeated Guy’s question with a lift of his thick black eyebrows. “Ha! Only bad news follows the Ormond spawn, as you yourself well know. God’s teeth! Is that poor child in my best bed truly betrothed to Sir Roger’s whelp?”
Guy ground his teeth as Sir James gave full voice to the outrage in his own heart. He nodded again.
“By all that’s holy, man! Take her back to her father and be done with it. ’Tis a match made in hell.”
She’s from a proud family, Guy wrote on his slate.
“Proud, eh? Well, two weeks with that churlish scantling will cure her of that. Walter Ormond will beat all her pride, and everything else, out of the lass. Have you truly lost your wits?” Sir James put his elbows on the oaken table and leaned across to Guy. “Have you so renounced the fairer sex that you now throw them away to ravenous dogs?”
Guy flinched at the rebuke. Everything Sir James said was exactly what he had been asking himself since this mad journey began, almost a fortnight ago.
She cannot return to France, he wrote. He underlined cannot. Guy stared into the crackling fire in the hearth while Sir James pondered his words.
The older man stroked his short beard, a new fashion of King Henry’s, much copied by his courtiers. “The word from the north is that the Ormond spawn suffers from the pox.” Sir James nodded slowly as Guy gaped at him. “Aye, ’tis true. They say the knave carries all the marks, and will not live out another twelvemonth. That will be cold comfort to your lady. By the time he’s in his grave, she will be riddled with the pox herself. What say you to that, churchman?”
A roar of anger filled Guy’s lungs. He wanted to shout down the new chimney pots into a heap of brick and rubble, then ride to Snape Castle and strangle Walter Ormond with his bare hands. Instead, Guy choked back the black fury churning his blood and dug his nails into the palms of his hands. He knew he should ask God’s forgiveness for harboring such violent thoughts, but what was God thinking, to allow so sweet an angel as Celeste to be mated with a poxed devil? How could Guy bow his head and pray, “Thy will be done” when it was his own will he wanted?
I am bound to obey, he scrawled furiously across the slate, his hand shaking with the effort.
Sir James reached over and brushed a hot tear from Guy’s cheek. “I’m glad to see you have not yet turned into stone, my boy. Take care of the lady as best you can — and pray for a miracle.”
Chapter Eleven
Nature cooperated during the next week in helping drive away Celeste’s cold. The rain stopped the day after she arrived at Burke Crest, and a warm October sun sent its healing rays through Sir James’s new diamond-paned windows. Thanks to Lady Eleanor’s careful nursing and herba
l remedies, as well as the infectious good spirits that pervaded the household, Celeste felt more fit in body and soul than she had since leaving France.
Everyone took special pains to make her welcome, especially the Foxmore children — four delightful scamps who strove with varying degrees of success to speak French to their new guest. Celeste, in turn, added to her store of English, which eleven-year-old James and eight-year-old Amanda made a game of teaching her. The other two children, Nell, aged five, and young Harry, a sturdy lad of three, did their best to entertain Celeste, bringing her flowers yanked by the roots from the gardens, birds’ feathers, several kittens from a recent litter and assorted sweetmeats cadged from the kitchens.
Once Lady Eleanor allowed her patient out of bed, Celeste enjoyed strolling around the newly built manor house, of which Sir James was inordinately proud. She politely listened to her host’s rambling discourses on the cistern in the attic, which allowed the collected rainwater to flow down tile pipes to the kitchens, the size and width of the new fireplaces and the large number of ornate chimney pots, the latest fashion in windows, using a great deal of glass, the artful linen-fold paneling in the private rooms and the wide carved staircase descending to the great hall.
Gaston reported to her that the men and horses relished their respite from the journey. Sir James’s servants treated them kindly, even though their knowledge of French was next to nothing. Warm smiles and shared pots of ale — better brewed than most — went a long way toward ensuring good Anglo-French relations. Celeste suspected that the serving maids of the household found her men very interesting, especially now that they had taken proper baths in the nearby river, shaved the stubble off their good honest faces and washed their clothing with lye soap.
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