As for the young driver, Pierre, Celeste had spied him shyly courting Harry’s nursemaid in the garden, singing to her in his fine tenor voice. When the lad tried to steal a kiss, Celeste had made ample noise to warn him away from such forward behavior.
Only Brother Guy appeared to grow more dour and morose as the pleasant days skimmed by. He rarely came to the midday dinner, and almost never to supper. As had happened at the priory, the tall monk disappeared if Celeste came upon his solitary meditations, and his eyes flashed blue fire whenever she caught him staring at her. Celeste couldn’t understand his behavior. His brooding appearance alarmed her, though she knew it was pointless to chide him about it — as if he would linger long enough for her to speak more than two words to him.
One particularly sunny afternoon, toward the end of the week, Celeste sought out her favorite bench in the garden. A few late-blooming roses offered their heady perfume to her as she arranged her green brocade skirts. The sun’s rays fell warmly on her back as she bent over her favorite book. Dear Mama had given her this exquisite copy of old King René’s Book of Love. Celeste cherished the blue leather-bound volume, not only because it was her mother’s parting gift, but also because its beautiful tale of the Knight of the Loyal Heart’s quest to win the love of the Lady Sweet Grace was Celeste’s favorite romance.
Opening the book at random, she soon lost herself in the music of the French poetry and the magic of the full-color illumination that showed the valiant knight arming himself to do battle against the black-clad Knight of Sorrow. The sunlight gleamed on the gold leaf of the True Knight’s winged helm, and the page decorations of blue forget-me-nots and red gillyflowers sparkled with their fresh jewel colors. The lavish illustrations reminded Celeste of that long-ago time in her childhood when her father had allowed her to visit him at the legendary Field of Cloth of Gold.
What enchantments that tented city had held for a wide-eyed girl of eleven! What wondrous food and drink! For once, no one had scolded her for eating like a pig. She happily stuffed herself with baked turbot and salmon, pears smothered in cinnamon and cream, roasted peacocks served in their own feathers, and a strange new delicacy called asparagus, which looked like thick stalks of grass but tasted glorious, especially when served in a light lemon cream sauce.
She remembered the spice breads, buns stuck full of raisins, and those thin, sweet wafer biscuits, which tasted especially good with a glass of wine. And the wines! The very fountains standing amid the bright-painted tents had literally flowed with the sweet wines of Burgundy. Celeste licked her lips in remembrance. In truth, she had visited those fountains a bit too often for her own good. Thank the stars no one but an interested dog or two had seen her get sick behind the stables.
The tournaments had left the deepest impression upon her memory. Bright-colored flags above the flower-bedecked pavilions had snapped in the fresh breezes blowing off the Channel, and the teasing June sun had played hide-and-go-seek over the huge tiltyard. Hundreds of knights had participated in the jousts, which began in the early mornings and continued through the long summer afternoons. Celeste had sighed over the handsome knights encased in their armor, burnished to a silver sheen, and their colorful coats of arms emblazoned on their flowing saddlecloths, their shields and their silken surcoats. Long ostrich plumes dyed purple, red, yellow and white had hung from their helms, fanning in the breeze. The young Celeste could hardly contain herself, with all the excitement around her and she had almost been sent back to her father’s tent when she snatched the blue veil from her head and held it out to one of the knights as a favor. Alas, the magnificent hero, on his huge charcoal-gray charger, had never even noticed her tiny fluttering scrape of silk.
Lost in the romantic daydreams of her very own Knight of the Loyal Heart, Celeste failed to hear approaching footsteps until a long, dark shadow fell across her page.
“Brother Guy! You startled me!” Celeste snapped the book shut and tried to cover its title with the folds of her skirt. She didn’t think the stern-faced archangel in the plain brown robe would approve of her reading material.
She smiled at him, the curves of her mouth deepening with added pleasure when he seated himself beside her on the bench. In fact, she could not remember if they had ever sat next to each other in this way before. At dinner this past week, she had always sat on Sir James’s right, while Brother Guy, if he bothered to appear for the meal, took a place down at the lower end of the table, with Gaston and her men-at-arms. Observing him now through the fringe of her lashes, she again noted how very tall he was—even when sitting down. He literally loomed over her, encompassing her in his shadow. A sweet, warm rush filled her body as she raised her eyes to his.
Brother Guy held out his hand, palm open.
“What is it you desire?” she asked lightly. Why was her heart beginning to pound so loudly? “You wish my hand? Do you intend to tell my fortune? La, for shame, good Monk!”
If anything, Guy’s expression grew sterner. He shook his head, pointed to the corner of her book, which peeked out from under her green velvet skirts. Then he held out his hand again.
Zut alors! He wanted to see her book. How shocked he would be when he discovered it was not a book of hours, the approved reading matter for gently bred ladies! Not daring to look directly into those blue eyes that seared her soul, Celeste drew the book from its hiding place and dropped it into his hand. Long ago, when her many pranks had threatened the retribution of a hickory switch, she had learned that the best defense was an immediate offense.
“Oh, la, la, Brother Guy! What would your good Father Jocelyn say if he spied you reading a book of romance? I think he would be very shocked, and he might even question the sincerity of your vocation.”
Brother Guy said nothing, but merely turned the pages slowly, giving each picture his complete attention. Celeste noticed a small muscle twitching along his jawline. Why did he have to look like such an avenging angel all the time, when he would be so much more pleasing if he just smiled?
“Does the poetry amuse you, Brother Guy?” She twisted the material of her skirts with her fingers when he did not acknowledge her question. “I am sure you will agree that the illustrations are most beautiful, n’est-ce pas? I cannot help but wonder what the poor monk who worked so long on them must have thought, especially when he painted the lady’s breast in such a warm, living color.” Celeste could tell by the way the handsome monk at her side suddenly stiffened that she had scored one direct hit.
“Do you think he had to run to his confessor after he put down his brush, Brother Guy?”
The monk raised his golden head and impaled her with the brilliance of his eyes. Celeste caught her breath, then covered her gasp with quick laughter. “Hey-ho, Brother Guy! I do but jest with you. Don’t tell me you have never been teased by a lady before!”
Guy willed his fevered blood to cool. He should have never given in to the temptation to sit beside this bewitching minx. Only his guilty conscience had prompted him to approach her. She had looked so hurt when he deliberately avoided her gaze at supper, or when he passed her in the hall, or at prayers in the chapel. Now he merely wanted to let her know that he was not angry with her. In fact, he found he missed her endless stream of merry chatter, the music of her low laughter and the twinkle of her violet eyes.
Only his self-loathing had kept him away from her rose-scented presence. He ached to join her when he saw her skip down the autumn-strewn garden paths with the little Foxmores. Each time he heard her sweet voice lifted in song, now blessedly clear of the hoarseness of her cold, another sharp pain stabbed his heart. Too soon, he must deliver Lissa up to the poxy Ormond who claimed her for his bride. Too soon he would be the instrument who sucked her dew-fresh beauty from her cheeks when he abandoned her behind the walls of Snape Castle. Guy hated himself for what he had sworn on his honor to do.
“Ma foi!” Celeste murmured next to him, her voice filled with mirth. “If you pull your face any longer, Brother Guy, your chin
will drag upon the ground. Why so sad on such a lovely day? Are you angry that God has not sent you a storm to fit your black mood? Pray you, be of good cheer.”
Guy wanted to smile for her. His lips quivered at the thought. He wanted to laugh and weep at the same time, then clasp Lissa to his chest, smooth the downy skin between her raven-winged brows with his thumb and tell her she would be safe with him always. He wanted to part her lips with his, delve his tongue into the honey of her mouth, and—
God forgive me! What devil had crept into his thoughts just now and pried opened the locked box of his worldly desires? Tonight he must do more penance, facedown on the dank stones of the chapel floor. Guy wished he had a scourge to chastise himself with, but Father Jocelyn frowned on such practices, calling them “barbaric.” Guy craved pain to banish the pleasure that engulfed his senses as he sat on the bench beside Celeste.
Pulling himself together, he pointed to one of the knights who dominated the illustrations in her book.
Celeste sighed, the color of her eyes changing to a lavender mist. “Oui, he is very handsome. That is the Knight of the Loyal Heart. He is the true and noble knight who seeks to be worthy of the Lady Sweet Grace. You can see his device upon his helm, the winged heart, which shows that a true heart is light and speeds his love to the lady. Upon his shield are three forget-me-nots, to show that he always remembers his lady and the love he bears for her, no matter what adversities he may meet. And he meets many, many evil ones, oui.”
Guy cast Celeste a brief sideways glance. She speaks of this knight as if he were real! He marveled at the softness of her voice and the faraway expression in her face.
Looking up from her book into his eyes, Celeste stopped abruptly. A becoming pink blush tinted her cheeks. “You must think me moonstruck, n’est-ce pas? Do not shake your head, Brother Guy, for I can read it in your eyes. You have not offended me. I have heard that remark often enough. My good aunt said I lived with my head in the clouds—and my feet everywhere else.”
Guy’s lips twitched with his yearning to smile. Lissa could make a gargoyle grin, if she put her formidable wit to it. Nay! Guy must restrain himself. He could not lower the drawbridge to his heart—not even for so charming a lady as Lissa. Especially not for Lissa!
A sigh like a single golden leaf floating on a pale autumn breeze escaped her lips. Then Celeste smiled brightly at him—too brightly, he thought.
“Perhaps my father-in-law-to-be will have a tournament in honor of my wedding to his son. Do you think that is possible?”
Knowing both the Ormonds and their greed, I highly doubt it. Guy shrugged his silent answer—glad he couldn’t voice the truth.
Much to Guy’s inner distress, Celeste waxed warmer on the subject. “It would be such a marvelous thing, with all the flags flying and the trumpets announcing the combatants and my husband riding into the lists as my true champion.”
Green bile rose in Guy’s throat. Walter Ormond was no one’s knight, true or otherwise. His behavior at court had banished him long before he could earn his spurs. And fighting for a lady’s honor would be the very last thing Ormond desired on his wedding day. Rutting in the middle of the marriage feast would be his idea of combat.
“La, I would so like to reign over a tournament as the Queen of Truth and Beauty. Just once.” Her slim finger lightly touched the illustration of the Knight of the Loyal Heart. “I saw a tourney in France, when I was eleven. It was at the Field of Cloth of Gold when our two kings met and entertained each other. There was the most splendid knight there—taller than all the rest, and he wore the device of a fearsome wolf, teeth all snarling and a long red tongue hanging out.”
Guy went very still. A dormant ember of pride burst into flame in a secret place of his heart. By the rood, Lissa had seen him joust in his early days at King Henry’s court! The wolf emblem belonged to his branch of the Cavendish family, and while both he and his brother Brandon had broken many lances on the field of honor, there was no confusion about which brother was which. Though Brandon was a year older, Guy was the taller by a head. And Lissa had seen him joust!
Celeste shook her head with a sad, sweet smile. “He was such a tall knight, he didn’t notice me. I was quite small then, you understand, even shorter than I am now. When the Knight of the Wolf rode to the wall and filled his lance with the ribbons and favors of the ladies—many ladies, I may add—well...” She lifted her shoulders in an eloquent shrug. “He did not see me standing there. Do you know I have kept that little blue veil I tried to give him? A silly thing to do, you may think. Perhaps, but it is also very romantic.”
A shy smile fluttered across her lips. “I must confess a secret to you, Brother Guy, for I know you will not betray my confidence. You see, I have always been secretly in love with my brave Knight of the Wolf, even though I never saw his face. My sisters teased me for years, calling him my dream lover. It is true, for he has often been found haunting my pillow at midnight.”
Celeste tossed her head, as if to wipe away her last words. “Of course, now I must put away such childish fancies, for soon I will have a real knight by my side—my husband. Perhaps I shall wear the little blue veil on my wedding day for luck.”
Guy felt as if the icy fingers of the Northumberland winter held him fast in their grip. Down through the years, Lissa had loved him. Nay, his conscience reminded him, she loved the faceless knight with a wolf’s device. She never knew you, therefore she did not love you. Besides, what does it matter now? You are for the church, and she is for... Guy squeezed his eyes shut to blot out the grotesque image of Walter Ormond that pranced through his mind.
“Pardonnez-moi, Brother Guy!” Lissa’s sweet voice instantly banished the sickening sight. “I have been remiss. I see you suffer a headache, oui? And all my prattling has made it worse. Forgive my stupidity.”
With that, she leapt up from the bench, snatched her book and, lifting her thick skirts, which revealed her slim ankles, dashed down the gravel walk. The pale green veil attached to her coif caught on an outstretched branch of a yew as she rounded the hedge, but she quickly disengaged it and disappeared.
Guy sat very still on the hard stone bench and wondered when he had last yearned so much for the touch of a woman.
Chapter Twelve
Leaving Burke Crest after early mass the next morning proved to be very difficult for both the Foxmores and Celeste’s party. Little Harry bawled loudly to see Pierre, his newfound playmate, leap into the driver’s seat of the wagon. Harry’s pretty nursemaid looked equally bereft. Lady Eleanor managed to rescue Nell’s secret gift of a new kitten, who yowled in piteous tones for its mother inside a canvas sack amid the baggage. With many thanks for the Foxmores’ generous hospitality and many more promises to keep in touch with her new friends, Celeste mounted her palfrey.
“It is too bad that the young James is not old enough to be your husband,” Gaston muttered as he adjusted her saddle girth. “I would approve of that marriage.”
Celeste leaned over so that only Gaston could hear her. “You mean you approve of his father’s ample larder and their even more generous cook, oui?”
Gaston puffed out his cheeks and knotted his thick brows. “The devil take you, my lady, for spying on a man’s private affairs”
“Oh, my good Gaston, I did no spying myself, but the children! Ma foi! What can one do with four pairs of bright eyes watching every move?”
“Bah! Little foxes they are!” Gaston glanced over his shoulder at the four forlorn faces watching from the top of the stairs. “I will remember your sins in my prayers!” he shouted to them in French, with a huge grin of forgiveness.
Young James swept him a courtly bow. “Merci beaucoup, brave soldier,” he answered.
“The young jackanapes has picked up a fair speech in just a week. Mon Dieu! What I could do in a month with a boy that quick!” Gaston muttered with an approving gleam in his eye.
Celeste laughed, in spite of her sorrow at leaving. “My mind is not wide enough to
contemplate that possibility, Gaston.”
Guy left last, detained by Sir James, who engaged him in a private conference. Neither man looked happy upon parting.
“Remember what I said, churchman!” Sir James called after Guy as the party wended its way out the gates of Burke Crest. “ ’Twill be upon your soul!”
Guy said nothing, of course, but his face looked thunderous.
Celeste spent the rest of the cool, misty morning wondering what her kind host had meant by his strange admonition. She knew it was pointless to ask Guy. Sitting as straight as a poker on his beast, he acted as if he were going to his execution. Perhaps he was beginning to miss the priory, and longed to be back within its safe confines. On the other hand, perhaps Brother Guy just hated being astride balky old Daisy again. After listening to Gaston’s complaints about the donkey’s sharp bones and sharper disposition, Celeste couldn’t blame the monk, though he bore his discomfort with his customary stoic forbearance.
The fierce wind from the North Sea spewed winter on its breath, turning the bare trees on the moorlands of Northumberland into glistening frosty sculptures. Nightly, ice formed a thin cover in the wells and horse troughs. Even the washing water in the master bedroom froze before morning. Walter Ormond drew his cloak tighter around his shivering body and damned the arrival of an early snow.
Only today a weary messenger had brought the discouraging word to Snape Castle that the promised bride—his bride—had delayed her journey once again, this time on the pretext of some sort of indisposition.
“When the wench is mine, I’ll see to it that she moves right smartly,” he growled to Scullion, one of the few minions who still enjoyed Walter’s company—or Walter’s purse. It mattered not. Scullion would sell his own mother for a farthing.
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