Pip jutted out his chin. “I be nae so little, neither!”
Celeste bit her tongue to keep from laughing at his youthful pride. Pip reminded her of her brother, Philippe. “Pardonnez-moi, Master Peep. I am but French, and do not know too many English. I wonder, are you hungry, eh?”
Pip nodded. “Always, lady.”
Celeste tapped the side of her nose. “Ah! Just so!” She spoke to Pierre in French. “Give the boy some bread, and whatever else you have with you. But make sure he does not sample the brandywine again. I think he has had enough of that.”
“D’accord!” Pierre agreed. He pulled a bag out from under the seat and passed to Pip a chunk of Mistress Kate’s finest white bread.
Pip’s eyes widened. “Oh, aye, lady! I ne’re tasted the like of this!” He fell upon it like a wolf cub. “My thanks,” he mumbled through a mouthful.
“If you are finished playing Lady Charity, let us begone,” Gaston rumbled in her ear. “The light is fading, and we’ll never make this inn if we stand here in the mud.”
Celeste allowed Gaston to help her back into her saddle. “You have a caring heart,” she teased him.
“I’ll have a pack of fleas by supper,” he growled as he returned to his patient horse.
Without looking behind him, Guy kicked Daisy into a protesting trot, and the party headed down the road to the Hawk and Hound.
The promised inn proved to be one of the fouler establishments they had encountered. If snow had not begun to fall just as they arrived at its sagging door, Guy would have urged the party onward. Unfortunately, he knew there was little chance of a better place between here and York. As they led their horses into the run-down stable, Guy plucked at Gaston’s sleeve.
Set a guard, he wrote on his slate.
“Oui, my friend.” Gaston’s brown eyes blazed in the semidarkness of the dank stable. “I smell danger, as well as a bad privy. Stay close to my lady.”
I would have her as close as my heart.
Pip stopped Celeste and Guy before they crossed the yard to the taproom. “My master is John Coldshanks, and he’s nae used to fine company. Take care, good lady. He cheats.”
Celeste placed her hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Thank you for your good advice, Master Peep.” She gave him a shilling, and before he could stammer his thanks, she kissed him on the cheek, which left him speechless.
Guy offered her his arm. Celeste held it tightly, clutching the saddlebag that held her precious dowry in the other. They picked their way across the dung-spattered yard to the taproom. Gaston, Émile and René followed close behind, leaving the others to stay with the horses and baggage.
The taproom stank of unwashed bodies, fried onions and a poorly drawn fire. The minute Celeste entered the room, all talking ceased. Bellowing in French when his English failed him, Gaston made short work of expressing their needs to the innkeeper, Coldshanks.
Without moving his head, Guy scanned the room with his eyes. A rough-and-tumble lot with light fingers, he judged, but none who looked to be an out-and-out cutthroat. For the first time since hanging up his sword and lance, the monk wished he had a weapon at his belt. He draped his arm protectively around Celeste’s shoulders as their skulking host conducted them to a room at the end of the upstairs hall. Celeste said nothing, but held her head high until after Guy closed the door.
“By the warts on the devil’s nose, what a way-stop to hell this is!” Gaston knelt by the cold fire grate and tossed a few rotted logs onto it. “It’s that knavish waterfly’s fault we are here, my lady. I’ve a good mind to thrash the boy soundly.” He struck a spark with his tinderbox, then tried to coax a reluctant blaze.
Celeste flung open the window and drew in a deep breath of the snow-filled air. “Non, Gaston. He meant only to help us, I am sure.”
“He’s a coney-catcher, and I intend to sleep with both eyes open this night.” A weak flame licked at the logs.
“I fear this was the only inn on the road. Is that not so, Brother Guy?”
Turning from the window, Celeste gazed up at him. Her midnight hair, released from her furred cap, blew about in the wind, framing her delicate features.
Guy nodded. How beautiful Celeste looked—and how tired! The day’s journey had been particularly difficult. Guy wished they could dispense with the deuced wagon altogether. He flashed her a brief smile of encouragement. She responded with a ripple of low, smoky laughter. Guy pretended to inspect the mattress and bed ropes. He must be careful not to encourage Celeste. Already they had become much too familiar for their own good. Nightly he wrestled with the demons of his desire for her. Daily they grew stronger.
Supper in here, Guy wrote on his slate. The others in the room agreed. He rubbed out the first message, then scribbled, Gaston take first watch, René in three hours, I the mid-three, Émile till morn.
Celeste put her hands on her hips. “Et moi?”
You sleep, Guy printed in large letters, not daring to meet the fire in her eyes.
“Sacrebleu! I am as good a watchman as the rest of you. Non, I am better. I do not drink as much wine.”
If the situation were not so ominous, Guy would have been tempted to take up her challenge and give her the midnight shift. He gestured to Gaston to reason with her.
“When we left the priory, your good aunt made me swear to keep you safe. And you promised to follow my orders.”
“But...”
“But no.” Gaston folded his arms across his chest and glared down at her in the way he probably had been doing all her life. “You go to sleep directly after supper. We will leave this pesthole by first light.”
The old soldier and maid glowered at each other for a full minute. Guy wondered what Celeste had been like as a child. By the Book, she must have been a hellion in petticoats—she still was. Again he regretted not noticing her at the tournament eight years ago, when she had tried to give him her blue veil. Guy shook himself from the memory. It did not matter where she had been as a child, it was where she must go now that plagued Guy. Lissa would need every shred of her spirit to survive living with the Ormonds.
“Ha!” Celeste snapped her fingers under Gaston’s large nose. “I shall go to bed. But, I promise you, my dear Gaston, I shall not sleep a wink. I shall be kept awake all night by your loud snores. Fah! So you may as well give me something to do.”
“By the devil’s—” The old soldier checked his language in time. “Be mindful, my lady. You are not too old for a spanking, and I am still strong of arm.” Without giving her a chance to retort, he flung himself out the door, growling at the two smirking men-at-arms to follow.
Celeste moved over to the fire and stretched out her hands toward its weak flames. Guy shut the window, then stood in the gathering shadows, watching her wrestle with her determination.
“Is it as dangerous as Gaston thinks, Brother Guy?” she finally asked, a note of nervousness creeping into her voice.
Guy crossed to her side, knelt down and took both her hands in his. Her fingers were chilled. He blew on them and rubbed them vigorously while he tried to think how to answer her question.
“Tell me the truth, Brother Guy. Will someone try to harm us?”
Guy raised his eyes to hers, and quelled the desire to cover her anxious face with his kisses. He nodded his head quickly, then held up his hand and balled it into a fist. He smacked his fist against his open palm.
Celeste covered his curled fingers with her feather-light touch. She swallowed hard, lifted her chin and boldly met his gaze. “Then I shall sleep well, for I know I am in good hands.”
Their gazes interlocked and held. A silent understanding passed between their souls; as light as a sigh on the wind, as strong as a sword of Spanish steel.
The taproom had emptied by ten that night. Folk did not like to stay out late in this part of the country, especially as the snow continued to fall. Exhausted from his adventures of the day and sore from the beating Coldshanks had given him for coming back late, Pip curled i
n the far corner of the inglenook and fell into a pleasant state of half sleep, dreaming of the most beautiful lady he had ever met, even if she did call him “Peep.”
Suddenly the front door banged open, nearly causing Pip to fall into the fire. Four of the most unsavory men he had ever seen stamped in, shaking the snow from their cloaks and bawling for the innkeeper. Pip knew instinctively he wanted nothing to do with this lot. Furtively he edged himself deeper into the darkest corner.
“Hellfire and damnation! Landlord, stir yer stumps!” The largest man banged on the wooden counter. The three others huddled around the fire, jostling for the warmest position. Pip made himself as small as possible.
“Who calls at this infernal hour?” Coldshanks bustled in from his room in the back, rubbing his eyes. Pip could tell that the rude awakening had put his master in a mean mood.
“Yer betters, knave!” the oaf roared. “A jug o’ yer best beer and some supper, man. My master’s near perished for want of food.” He waved toward a fifth person who stood deep in the shadows near the entrance.
Coldshanks sneered at the loud one. “My better, eh? In a stained jerkin and holes in his knees? Be gone!”
Pip stifled his gasp as the loud man’s knife flashed in the firelight. The others paid no mind to the proceedings, but Coldshanks cowered at the sight.
“Know ye, scullion, my master is the son o’ Sir Roger Ormond of Snape Castle. ’E’s a noble gentleman. So look sharp, or this blade will find its home in yer gut.”
Coldshanks broke into a round of twitches and blubbering the like of which Pip had never before witnessed. “At your pleasure, sir. Pray seat yourself, sir. Supper in a moment, sir.”
The one with the knife shoved the innkeeper aside. “Aye,’tis more like it. Now, move your plagued bones!”
“Wait!” The one in the shadows stepped forward into the firelight.
Looking at him, Pip wanted to gag. Raw open sores covered the fifth man. A pair of red eyes glared out of his thin, pasty face. Though he kept his cap on, Pip suspected him to be bald. The man looked the very image of a walking corpse. Pip surreptitiously made the sign against the evil eye.
“Do you know of a lady—a French lady of great beauty—who is traveling this road?” the face of death asked.
A sly smile flitted about Coldshanks’s lips. “Perchance I might.”
The burly one lifted the innkeeper by the collar. “Then ye best spill yer words in my master’s ear, afore I spill yer guts on the floor.”
“Peace, Deighton!” The apparition called Ormond waved his hand. “A bit of silver will tell me far more than your bit of blade.” He grinned horribly, revealing red, bleeding gums. “What say you, innkeeper?”
“Aye, my lord. The lady you seek is...” Coldshanks lowered his voice to a hoarse whisper. “Upstairs as we speak, all tucked up with her father confessor. And a cozy little lot they is, too, if you get my meaning, sir.”
Five pairs of evil eyes gleamed at one another. Ormond threw his leg over a bench and sat down. “Asleep, say you? Good. First we shall dine, and then, perchance, we’ll invite the lady downstairs to dance.” The others guffawed at this ominous remark.
With more bowing and scraping, Coldshanks scampered about—drawing beer, setting crockery and cups on the table, racing for the cold kitchen to wake the cook.
Pip ached inside. He must warn the good lady, but how could he move without being seen? The stairs to the first floor were near enough, but he must bide his time and hope the men would bide theirs. Pip hadn’t been inside a church since Easter, but he now prayed for all he was worth and hoped that the Lord above wasn’t too angry at him for his past omissions.
“Help the lady, good Lord, for she is a sweet lady.”
The night grew later and colder, though Pip felt nothing but terror in his corner. The men ate and drank heavily—especially drank. Coldshanks usually watered his beer. The brew was a strong one, and no one hereabouts noticed or minded the dilution. But considering the tenor of his customers, the innkeeper must have served it full-strength. Within two hours, the men were nodding over their cups and their speech had slurred into sleep—all except the sickening lord. Though he held his cup and lifted it often to his lips, Pip noticed that he drank sparingly. All the while, the lord kept a sharp eye on the big one, Deighton.
When Ormond stepped outside to relieve himself by the doorframe, Pip drew in a deep breath, uncoiled himself from his corner and crept out of the inglenook. He begged his guardian angel to give his injured ankle strength, just for a little while. Then he sprinted to the stairs, climbing them two at a time. Each step on his left foot shot daggers of pain up his leg, but he paid it no mind. Only the beautiful lady mattered now.
Chapter Seventeen
Sitting on a stool in the shadowed corner of the upstairs room, Guy listened to the snores of Gaston and the other two who slept in cots near the fire. Lissa made no sound from behind the curtain they had hung in front of her bed. Guy hoped she slept. The dark smudges under her eyes worried him, and he feared a recurrence of her fever. While he kept watch, he tried to pray his office, but thoughts of Lissa, and the fate to which he was forced to lead her, rose up in his mind. Why had Father Jocelyn given him this task in the first place? Yet Guy realized that there had been no other in the priory whom the abbot could entrust with the safety of such a precious flower. If he had not renounced his worldly life for the church, Guy would take Lissa for himself and...
A gentle scrape outside the door interrupted Guy’s secular musings. The hairs on the back of his neck stiffened. The old familiar rush that he used to experience just before entering the tiltyard flooded his body. God’s teeth! What he would give for a sword in his hand! But you are a man of peace now.
The latch rattled, then slowly lifted. Guy slipped behind the door, ready to spring. By the low light of the fire’s embers, he saw Gaston curl into a crouch. That old fox must have a second pair of ears! The door opened slowly inward. Guy drew his breath. A slim figure crept in. Guy lunged forward, clamping one hand over the intruder’s mouth while grabbing him around the waist with the other.
The only sound in the ensuing struggle was a rasp of steel as Gaston pulled his dagger from its sheath. Guy knew he held a squirming boy in his grasp—Pip? Gaston lit the low tallow candle. Guy whispered, “Shush!” to Pip before realizing that he had uttered a sound. The horror of that indiscretion almost made him lose his grasp on the boy.
“It’s that rascally varlet we helped earlier today,” Gaston whispered, holding the candle up to Pip’s face. “See? The scantling has come to rob us in our sleep!” He waved his dagger in front of the wide-eyed boy and spoke slowly in English. “Do not make a move or I will kill you.”
Shivering, Pip nodded. Guy slowly relaxed his hold on the boy’s mouth.
“There’s five men below,” Pip gasped. “Ruffians, by their look, and they asked after the lady.”
Hellfire! Who would know of Celeste? Someone from the last inn, who had followed them, thinking that she carried money? Perhaps the landlord had sent word to a band of local brigands, hoping to share in their spoils.
“Five?” Gaston repeated, then glanced at Guy. “We are only three and you, Brother. The others—Mon Dieu! What if they have killed them in the stables already?” His face contorted with anger.
Not comprehending Gaston’s speech, but understanding the rage in the man’s face, Pip sent a beseeching look to Guy. “The men are besotted with drink—all except one. Aye, he looks the very devil. You must escape now.”
Guy slowly released Pip. The boy’s suggestion made sense. As much as he hated to turn tail and run, Guy knew that was their wisest option. At all costs, Celeste must be kept safe. He crossed to the window. Without the moon’s light, a black void swallowed up the view. Guy turned to Pip and pointed out the window.
The boy nodded his understanding. “The inn yard is to the right side below. The storehouse roof to the left,” he told them in a whisper. “At the far corner
of the storehouse is the stable.”
Guy opened the window. A frigid blast of wind, mixed with a few snowflakes, swirled in, causing the candle flame to flicker. Celeste and the two men-at-arms could get through the window. The opening would be a tighter squeeze for Gaston and himself. Guy pointed toward the door, then down.
Pip shook his head. “Nay, the only way out is through the taproom.”
Guy stuck his head out the window and assessed this dark avenue of escape. Meanwhile, Gaston quietly woke Émile and René. Mercifully, Celeste had not stirred. Despite her declaration that she would stay awake all night, her fatigue had bested her. Good! Too soon, she would need all her strength and spirit.
“’Tis not far to the storehouse roof,” Pip said, coming to his side. “I could jump to it with ease—if’n my ankle did nae hurt so.”
Guy stepped back and motioned for Gaston to look out. The old soldier withdrew his head from the window, muttering several profane curses, for which he did not apologize to Guy.
“It is a dog’s hole out there. One could call it a leap of faith, eh? René, have you a great deal of faith?” Gaston pointed out the window.
Crossing himself, René peered out, then threw both legs over the sill. Pip pointed slightly to the left. René nodded, then hunched forward and pushed himself off the ledge. Guy heard him land just below him. René hooted softly, mimicking an owl on the hunt.
“Bon!” Gaston licked his lips with satisfaction. “We will cross the storehouse roof to the stables. From there, we will walk the horses out of the yard, then ride like the wind. Thanks be to God for sending the snow to muffle our sounds.”
As Émile prepared to follow René, Guy pulled back the makeshift curtain to waken Celeste. He found her crouched in the middle of the bed, clutching her small eating knife. Her dark eyes glowed like a cat’s in the darkness. When she saw him, her shoulders sagged with relief.
Silent Knight Page 16
