Silent Knight

by Tori Phillips

  Guy stared down at his red, chapped toes, still primly shod in his worn sandals. When he first donned the simple garments of the Franciscans, the weather had been warm, with spring breezes followed by the summer’s sun. Guy had forgotten how very chill and raw the winters could be. He realized now that he must learn to ignore the numbing cold. Discomfort was part of the life he had chosen. On the other hand, this fire did feel uncommonly good on his bare, near-frozen feet.

  “So, I pray you, tell me, what shall we do to while away the hours?” Lady Mary had finally finished her soliloquy. The Cavendish family height, and her finely chiseled features, belied Lady Mary’s high spirits and love of play, which bubbled just beneath her serene exterior.

  “I like to play cards ver-rey much,” Celeste suggested.

  Guy glanced quickly up at her. By the rood, Celeste would win every last farthing of his aunt’s housekeeping money! Celeste saw his look. A smile hovered at the corners of her lips, and then she flashed him another wink. Guy got up from his place on the floor and crossed behind the settle—away from the little temptress. He really should return to the chapel—the frigid chapel—and pray for the safety of his vocation.

  One of the pages knocked on the door and announced dinner.

  “In good time!” Lady Mary nodded with approval. She held out her hand for Guy to assist her to her feet. “And I shall seat you both, one on each side of me, and watch you like a mother hawk to make sure you fledglings eat every morsel. Or there shall be no tansy cake for your sweet tooth, Guy.” Lady Mary whisked the lap robe off Celeste, then confided to her guest in a low, teasing voice, “Guy dotes upon tansy cake, especially with peppermint cream on top.”

  “Mais oui? Then I must have this cake, too.” Celeste held out her hand as Guy attempted to sweep past her. “Brother Guy, will you escort me?”

  Trapped! And the slyboots knew it. Guy touched her hand. Her long, slim fingers closed around his, sending jolting shocks, like summer lightning, coursing up his arm.

  “And perhaps the peppermint cream will make you smile again for me, n’est-ce pas?” she murmured in French as they went out the door behind Lady Mary.

  Like a fish caught in a weir net, Guy ceased his inner struggle. He wondered how long Aunt Mary planned to keep them in too-comfortable Cranston Hall. The aroma of roasted venison filled the air as they descended the broad stairs. Guy’s stomach rumbled with anticipation. Whatever the length of their stay, he knew it was going to be too long for the good of his vocation—and too short for the growing love in his heart.

  As Guy had known she would, Aunt Mary filled the following fortnight with a variety of pastimes, games of chance, music, dancing and food. As Celeste grew stronger, she willingly joined in the merriment and bloomed under his aunt’s care. Gaston and the men-at-arms spent their days hunting in the estate’s forests and their nights singing, dicing, and amusing the maids of the household. Despite his best intentions to the contrary, Guy found himself enjoying Aunt Mary’s milder pursuits, such as the nightly game of cards after supper. He told himself he played only to keep Celeste from bagging all the silver plate, but the truth, when he admitted it to himself in the cold darkness of the chapel, was that he looked forward to his hours in Celeste’s company.

  Because she was forced to speak English to Aunt Mary, Celeste’s knowledge of the language grew. At least she was no longer calling anyone a “peench-’potted raw-beet sucker.” Guy discovered that he missed hearing her say that particular phrase. As the perfect guest, Celeste happily fell in with whatever plan Aunt Mary suggested, be it learning the steps to a new galliard or devising a masque with the village children.

  This last project, entitled The Wedding of the King and Queen of the Faeries, kept the entire household, including a reluctant and still-silent Guy, busy for several days, as everyone made costumes and practiced the little ones in their parts. When the six-year-old lad portraying King Oberon balked at kissing his five-year-old Queen Mab, Lady Mary immediately enlisted Guy’s aid.

  “By my troth, Guy, don’t behave like such a lackwit!” chided Aunt Mary while Celeste, several serving maids and most of the village children looked on with amused interest. “I am sure young Ned here will do it right well, if you would just show him how easily ’tis done. ’Tis not as if you’ve never kissed a maid or two yourself, you know.”

  Guy felt the beginnings of a blush, but there wasn’t much he could do about it, since shouting down the rafters was forbidden to him.

  “Oui, Brother Guy, show us how this kissing is done,” added Celeste with a devilish gleam in the depths of her amethyst eyes.

  Aye, you raven-haired witch, I’d teach you all you’d ever need to know about kissing.

  Appalled at his unexpected lustful thought, Guy sank to his knees in front of the winsome blond faerie queen and quickly kissed her cheek. The rest of the children shrieked with laughter, while Ned tried to dig his toe into the wooden floor of the hall.

  “See, Ned? ’Tis as easy as falling off a log,” Aunt Mary cooed encouragingly.

  Ned shook his head and kept digging with his toe.

  Aunt Mary continued to reason with the embarrassed faerie king. “But, sweet poppet, the groom always kisses his bride.”

  Guy couldn’t help feeling extremely sorry for the lad. He could remember a time when he hadn’t liked to kiss girls, either.

  Celeste challenged him in a slightly mocking tone. “If you are a champion at kissing, Brother Guy, per’aps you show Ned again?”

  Guy groaned inwardly. He didn’t need to look over his shoulder to see Celeste grinning at his discomfort. Ned cast a beseeching look at him, that reminded the monk-to-be of a cornered rabbit. On the other hand, Guy knew that once his aunt set her mind to something, nothing short of an earthquake could dislodge her.

  Guy took the little girl by the hand, swept a courtly bow and kissed it. He arched his eyebrow at the boy. The faerie queen fidgeted. Ned stopped digging his toe into the floor. Guy took the boy’s hand and placed the girl’s in it. The other children erupted with mirth.

  “Ma foi!” Celeste rounded on the rest of the cast with a colorful blend of French and English. “You little black beetles! One day ver-rey soon, you will not be able to stop the kissing of each other, oui? Then who will have the last laugh, eh? I tell you—moi!”

  Not a child moved or twittered as Celeste trained her attention upon the wilting groom. “And you! You are the king, n’est-ce pas? And the king is ver-rey brave. He is not afraid of the kiss, non! He is the best kisser in all of faerieland. So now, you kiss the queen, and then we all have the sweetmeats to eat. C’est bon, n’est-ce pas?”

  Ned considered his options, and then, like a hawk swooping on the wing, he pecked the queen’s cheek. “There, so please you!” the lad chirped.

  “Bravo!” Celeste hugged both children, while Lady Mary beamed her pleasure. Over Ned’s curly locks, Celeste winked at Guy.

  Why do you have to learn so quickly that which makes you all the more desirable, Lissa? Guy trembled as if caught by a fever.

  While Celeste and his aunt conducted the children to the kitchen for the promised treats, Guy fled to the chapel. There he spent several hours freezing while he tried to sort out the confusing turmoil within his heart. When Guy emerged, stiff from kneeling on the stone floor, the solution to his dilemma still eluded him.

  The masque, held in the hall on the following Sunday afternoon for the entertainment of the household and the surrounding community, proved an overwhelming success. Young Ned kissed his bride with a resounding smack, which elicited a burst of applause. The little choir sang with sweet enchantment, the dancers did not trip over their flowing costumes. The refreshment tables, presided over by Mistress Kate, were quickly cleared of their bounty. Gaston and the other Frenchmen enjoyed the attentions of the maids and the wine Lady Mary brought up from the cellars. Everyone deemed the day a success—except Celeste.

  Just after the wedding scene, Guy saw her face crumple. Hiding beh
ind her handkerchief, Celeste slipped out of the hall. Fearing that she might be ill again, Guy followed and found her crying softly in the upstairs gallery. Quietly shutting the door behind him, he crossed to where she sat huddled on the window seat. Celeste looked up just as he knelt beside her.

  “Pardonnez-moi, Brother Guy, I didn’t mean to break the good cheer.” She dabbed her eyes with a corner of the handkerchief.

  Are you ill? Guy wrote on the slate.

  Celeste shook her head. “Non. Oui—I do not know. Pray excuse me. It will pass.”

  She didn’t look well, Guy thought as Celeste chewed her trembling lower lip. She looked as if she had seen a demon. Knowing he shouldn’t, he took her hand in his. As if she were drowning, she gripped his fingers tightly.

  “Forgive me,” she said in answer to the surprise in his eyes. “I am acting like a silly goose.”

  Guy took her chin between his forefinger and thumb, forcing her to look at him. Sweet Saint Anne, how he wanted to kiss her tears away!

  “It is nothing—only a child’s play—and yet...”

  Guy waited as patiently as he could. He realized that she was deathly afraid of something, which surprised him. Not once during their time together had Lissa shown anything but good humor and courage in the face of all her adversities. What had the masquing done to frighten her so? Did Lissa really believe in the faerie folk?

  “I will tell you, Brother Guy, but you must promise, on your honor as a man of God, to keep my secret.” Her eyes sought his and held them in her thrall.

  Guy wanted to bolt from the room. He couldn’t hear Lissa’s confession. It would be a sacrilege. Yet she needed comfort and had turned to him. What was he supposed to do? He bowed his head over her hand, which still gripped his.

  “The play reminded me of my duty—of my marriage to Walter Ormond,” she began, speaking as if from a far distance. “And I must confess to you, Brother Guy, I am sore afraid of this wedding.”

  Guy glanced up at her. Had she heard of Ormond’s pox?

  “That is...” She ran her tongue across her lips. “Of the wedding night. Just before we left the priory, Aunt Marguerite told me that I must submit to my husband in all things—even my body.”

  Guy began to understand. The old woman must have terrified Lissa with some sort of old wives’ tale. Considering Ormond’s case, no villainy could be underestimated. Guy squeezed her hand.

  “She said that he...he would strip me n-naked.” Tears began to gather in her eyes, though Celeste fought them back.

  “And that he would...that...”

  Guy knew all too well what came next, and he gave her what silent comfort he could. She presumed that he was a priest and was used to hearing people confess all manner of evil things. Thank God he wasn’t! How could anyone bear listening to the sorrow and pain of others day after day?

  Celeste leaned against the frosted window. “She said he would hurt me. That there would be pain and blood.” She swallowed hard at the thought. “Aunt Marguerite said that wives must accept this punishment by their husbands. Am I so very wrong not to want this thing? How can I deny my husband his rights over me? Oh, Brother Guy, I am so very, very frightened of this marriage!”

  Guy reached to take her in his arms, then dropped his hand to his side and clenched his fist. God’s teeth! He would have liked to strangle that old woman before she had the chance to scare the wits out of Lissa. Dried-up, bitter crones shouldn’t be allowed near marriageable virgins. It was a wonder there were any children in the world at all, if this was how a girl was prepared for the most important day in her life. Guy wished he dared to enfold her in his arms and, with his kisses, banish her fears. Instead he merely took her hand in his. Celeste gazed into the depths of his eyes and read his anguish there.

  “Please, do not feel sorry for me. I will be a good wife. I do promise that.” She gave him a brave little smile, then slid off the window seat and smoothed down her skirts. “Come, let us return to the feast, or we shall disappoint your good aunt.”

  Guy rose, as if in a dream, and followed her out of the gallery.

  Lissa, I would teach you joy, not fear, I swear. But even as he made that promise, Guy knew he could not keep it.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Two days later, the sun reappeared, shedding its feeble rays for the first time in several weeks. Celeste announced to her startled hostess that she must leave. Though she had much enjoyed her stay at Cranston Hall, Celeste felt guilty for lingering the extra days once her health had returned. By now, her parents must think her well wedded, and perhaps even expecting her first child. How angry and ashamed they would be if they knew she still kept her noble bridegroom waiting!

  Again the travelers turned northward, crossing the rugged Pennines, where they spent a full day pushing the wagon through the snowdrifts that covered the higher passes. They were relieved when they descended to the valley and encountered the gentler landscape of heather, peat and brown grass. Wearied by the days of travel over the frozen, rutted roads, the party ate ravenously every night and went to bed early in the various hostelries that Guy found for them. Celeste’s singing and cheerful banter had disappeared since her illness. She used all her strength to stay warm and upright in her saddle as they plodded northward.

  How could Guy stand the bitter cold? she wondered as another storm lashed them with needling sleet. He wore no cloak over his one shabby robe, and the cold had turned his feet bright red. He had gained back some weight under his aunt’s prodding, but Celeste feared he would soon return to his former gaunt appearance. At least he covered his bare head with his hood, and she noted with a secret pleasure that a new growth of his golden hair had finally obliterated his funny little tonsure.

  Ma foi! How handsome he was! Celeste agreed with Lady Mary’s observation that Guy’s holy vocation was a waste of a fine man. She closed her eyes against the sting of the wind and tried to imagine what Guy looked like dressed in fine velvets and particolored hose. She already knew what strong legs he had. Indeed, she had seen considerably more of those extremities than most people, save Guy’s former squire. She sighed and pulled her hood lower over her face. She hoped her betrothed looked just as handsome.

  Late one afternoon, they came upon a lone boy, crawling in the roadway that led out of Leeds. The lad, whose only name was Pip, had badly twisted his ankle from falling through the ice crust of a deep, rock-laced pothole.

  “Pauvre petit!” Celeste crooned over him as Gaston lifted the boy into the baggage cart.

  “Little vermin!” Gaston growled, watching Celeste bind Pip’s ankle. “The boy is crawling with lice and fleas, my lady. Do not touch him. You’ll become infested yourself.”

  “Peace, Gaston, you are frightening the child.” Celeste tucked the end of the bandage under the wrappings. “Have we any brandywine? He is near frozen.”

  Pip, who didn’t understand a word of French, lay very still. His stark fear glittered from under his half-closed eyes.

  “I canna pay,” he protested when Celeste offered him the wineskin.

  “Drink,” she urged in English. She smiled, hoping to calm his anxiety. “Is good. You need not pay. Rest now, oui?” She brushed the shaggy red hair out of his eyes.

  Pip glanced at the glowering old soldier beside her. He ran his tongue over his lips, but he made no move to take the bag.

  “I think he is afraid of you, Gaston,” Celeste murmured to her sergeant.

  “And well he should be!” Gaston grumbled in return. He pointed to the wineskin. “Drink!” he barked in English.

  Pip’s eyes widened. He glanced from the woman to the men around the cart. Finally his gaze rested on Guy. The solemn monk pointed to the bag and nodded slowly. Then his face relaxed into a broad smile.

  At the surprising sight, Celeste almost let the winesack slip from her fingers. She had not seen the full force of Guy’s beatific smile since that night at the Blue Boar. By now she had given up hope of ever seeing it again. Ma foi! An angel had come d
own from the overcast skies above, even if he did wear a ragged robe and ride a skinny donkey.

  “Much thanks, my lady.” Pip grabbed the wineskin, and drank down a large gulp of the fiery liquid before Gaston could stop him. Immediately the lad coughed and tears ran down his cheeks. The men-at-arms laughed good-naturedly as Gaston thumped him on the back.

  “Take leetle,” Gaston growled, retrieving the sack.

  “Is better?” Celeste stroked Pip’s forehead.

  The boy gulped, wiped his nose on his sleeve, then nodded. “’Tis a right fine drink,” he agreed. “There’s a fire a-running all through me.”

  Guy’s smile widened, and Celeste thought for a brief moment that a laugh might escape his lips. Catching her gaze, Guy sobered again. He pulled out his slate from his pocket.

  Ask Pip if we are near an inn, he wrote.

  “Show him your slate,” Celeste replied, shaking out a spare blanket and covering the boy with it.

  Guy scribbled, He can’t read.

  “Pah!” Celeste tossed her head, then returned her attention to Pip, who had watched the proceeding with open interest.

  “Did he get his tongue cut out?” he asked her, staring with awe at the tall man.

  Celeste laughed. “Non, he does not talk to anyone except God. He is a ver-rey holy man.”

  At that, Guy abruptly turned his back on them and remounted Daisy.

  “He asked is there an inn soon?” Celeste continued. What was the matter with Brother Guy? One minute he was warm and friendly, the next cold and withdrawn.

  Grinning, Pip pointed down the road ahead of them. “Yonder, lady. The Hawk and Hound. I am a stable boy there.”

  “C’est bon! Then we take you home, eh? You will be good with Pierre.” Celeste introduced the good-natured young driver. “Pierre is ver-rey clever with horses and little boys.”