Guy nodded brusquely. He did not need to be reminded of that unsavory fact. If it were not a sin, he would have spent this past month praying for Walter’s early demise. In unguarded moments, he had caught himself wishing it had already happened.
“Sir Roger wants an heir to carry on the family name. He knows that Walter cannot do it, even if he were married to the most... ah... fertile woman on earth.”
Guy glared at the shorter monk. How dare he discuss Lissa’s intimate duties in such a public manner?
The Grayfriar merely smiled at Guy’s frown. “Nay, hear me out, good Brother. They say Sir Roger means to marry your lady himself, and get another son upon her.”
Guy’s head snapped back as if he had been struck. A mass of conflicting emotions clashed within his soul. Relief—that Lissa would not be bedded with a pox-ridden husband. Fear, accompanied by sorrow—that a marriage to an Ormond would indeed take place now, no matter what happened to Walter. Anger—at himself, for wishing to prevent it. Confusion—wondering what he should do about his dedication to the church once he returned to the priory. Loss—that Lissa would be gone from him forever.
The Grayfriar cocked his head, with an understanding look. “Aye, the father is old, and not much to look upon, I warrant, but ’tis a better match for the lady.”
Poor Lissa, with her dreams of her handsome Knight of the Loyal Heart! Guy ached for her. He had never felt so powerless in his life.
“Be warned, Brother. The son, Walter Ormond, rides the king’s highways seeking his bride. If the rumor is even half-true, he means to wed her as soon as he can lay hands on her.”
Guy exhaled a breath that formed a misty cloud in the cold dampness of the church’s stone interior. With a sinking sensation, he guessed who had sought them at the Hawk and Hound. God’s teeth! What could they do now? Flee to sanctuary within the church? Lissa would never consider it. She was betrothed to the very man who sought so desperately to wed her.
Observing Guy’s expression, the Grayfriar nodded. “Forewarned is forearmed. I shall light a candle for you and your lady, and remember your cause in my prayers. Peace be with you, Brother.”
With that, the friar continued on his way. In stunned silence. Guy leaned against the sarcophagus of a long-dead crusader.
Sweet Jesu! Ignoring his need for food and water, Guy sank to his knees again. Covering his face with his hands, he prayed for guidance—this time, not for his own weakness, but for the future of his beloved lady.
Free her from her bond to the Ormonds, and I will do whatever you ask of me, Lord. I will lock myself away from her forever. I would give my life for her.
An hour later, when Guy rose, light-headed, from his knees, a fierce smile wreathed his lips. Though no complete plan had formed in his mind, at least he knew how to buy some time for Lissa. And time was God’s most precious gift to his earthly children.
Celeste shuffled her cards as a shower of sleet drummed against the windowpanes of her sitting room at the Rose and Crown. She should be thankful that here she was warm, dry and safe. A cheerful fire crackled in the grate, and several lit candles expelled the gloom of an early twilight. At the other end of the room, Dom and Flipot taught Pip the intricacies of dicing, in robust French. Downstairs, she knew, Gaston and the other men enjoyed the landlord’s hot cider, while keeping a watchful ear and eye for news of their recent adventure.
Sighing, Celeste laid out a hand of patience on a small table. Would this horrible journey never end? Had her father had any idea how far away Snape Castle was when he sent his daughter to England with only dear Aunt Marguerite and a set of silver spoons? She gave herself a little shake. Who was she to question her parent’s decision? She reminded herself how lucky she was that Sir Roger had agreed to have her for his son.
Celeste glanced at the card in her hand. Le valet de coeur—the jack of hearts. What was he like, her husband-to-be? This jack of her heart? The colored figure on the pasteboard card seemed to wink mischievously at her. Would Walter smile in such a roguish way? Did he have a sense of humor? She hoped so! Would he like to sing, to dance, to play card games, to tell amusing stories?
Celeste closed her eyes and tried once again to imagine their first meeting. Her Walter would ride out on his white horse from his banner-bedecked castle. The golden rays of the sun would reflect off his burnished silver armor as he came toward her. And when he reined in his horse before her... Oh, yes, the horse would stop so suddenly it would rear on its hind legs. Then, when Walter had the animal under his firm control, he would raise his helm and she would see...
Guy’s beautiful face floated into her musings. His golden hair framed his features, and his smile bedazzled the sun so much that it hid its face in a cloud for shame at the beauty of her betrothed lord—Sir Guy Cavendish.
Celeste swept the pack of cards to the floor. Non! Not Guy—in his brown Franciscan’s robe. Never Brother Guy—who was God’s man, not hers. It was Walter whom she was to marry very soon. Walter Ormond. She must never forget that.
Kneeling amid the cinders, Celeste gathered up her cards. When she wiped a speck of soot off the face of the jack of hearts, it smudged the picture. Hastily she buried the blackened image deep in the pack. The last card she retrieved was the ace of spades—the dark card, and the one worth the most points. Was it her imagination or did the bit of pasteboard seem to glow in her hand? Silly goose! She shuffled it into the deck and scolded herself for her superstition.
The weather finally improved several days later. Gaston hurried the men to load the new cart he had purchased. Celeste stood beside her horse, rubbing its nose. Ma foi! Her baggage had grown considerably smaller since she had left France, nearly three months ago. She had sailed across the dreadful Channel with trunks full of gowns, shifts, undergowns, petticoats, laces, ribbons, stockings, veils, cloaks, coifs and slippers. She sighed.
“It is my slippers that I think I miss the most, Starlight,” she confided to her horse as she fed him pieces of a carrot Pip had produced from some place best not known. “A whole box full of them, washed away in a wretched river. And then, my favorite red ones... you remember them, eh? The ones with the golden stitching? I wondered if they burned up at that peench-’potted inn?”
Something touched her arm. When she looked around, she saw Guy standing by her side. She drew in her breath at the sight of him. He had been absent from her company ever since she had awakened at the Rose and Crown after a long twelve-hour sleep between clean sheets. As he gazed down at her, he looked as gaunt as he had before their stay at Cranston Hall, but now his face was different. In the past, he had frowned when he looked at her. This time, something else lay hidden in the mysterious depths of his blue eyes. Celeste didn’t know what it was, but she approved of the change.
His stone facade had fallen away. The face of her own special guardian angel had finally come alive.
Again slowed down by a cart, the bridal party plodded their way up the York-to-Edinburgh post road. Guy hoped they would reach the village of Thirsk before early evening overtook them. Twenty miles a day was the best they could manage, considering that the roads through the Vale of Yorkshire were not as well maintained by the crown as those farther south. Though cold, at least the weather was clear, and everyone bloomed with good spirits, even the obnoxious Daisy.
Bringing up the rear, Guy kept to his own thoughts for company, though periodically he would look up when he heard Celeste’s laughter. She passed the time in alternately teaching French and teasing the smittea Pip. Under the shadow of his hood, Guy smiled to himself when he heard her jests and quips carried back to him on the cold, bright air. He thanked the saints that he was not the source of her amusement this time.
Lost in his contemplation of the future, particularly Lissa’s future, Guy did not hear hoofbeats behind him until Paul, who rode nearby, turned, in his saddle, then called out, “Riders approach!”
Up ahead, Gaston wheeled Black Devil around and drew alongside Celeste. Pierre pulled the cart
off the road to allow the approaching party room to pass. Guy yanked Daisy to a halt, then looked over his shoulder.
Five men thundered down the road from the direction of York, the hooves of their horses tearing up great clods of mud as they came. All of them were armed with longbows and daggers. Their leader carried a double-bladed broadsword at his belt—a knight’s weapon. A knot of apprehension twisted in the pit of Guy’s stomach. Scanning the empty road ahead of them, he cursed inwardly. A perfect spot to waylay travelers! His fingers itched for a sword to hold.
“Who comes?” Paul asked out of the side of his mouth. His hand rested on the hilt of his short sword.
Guy squinted in the fading light. The lead horse wore a saddlecloth emblazoned with a coat of arms. As they drew nearer, Guy choked on his sudden anger. The three black crows on a golden shield proclaimed the Ormond crest. Walter Ormond had come a-wooing at last.
In the cart, Pip let out a small yelp, then jumped out of the seat and ran back to Guy.
“’Tis the very knaves I told you about, Brother Guy!” The boy’s eyes widened with fear. “The same as at the Hawk and Hound.”
Sweet Jesu! Guy’s heart raced in double time. His anger threatened to burst from the confines of his control. Lissa should have been greeted with music and flowers, not by a band of cutthroats.
Guy pointed to Gaston. Pip turned on his heel and sped back down the road, where he relayed his message to the venerable soldier. Guy pulled the edge of his hood low over his face, hoping Walter would not recognize him from his days at court.
As Walter rode closer, Guy seethed with his impotent anger. The Ormond spawn visibly crawled with the hideous scourge of the pox. Guy could barely look at the man’s face without retching. Sweet Saint Anne, protect Lissa from this... this...
“Do you know them, Brother Guy?” Celeste drew up beside him.
He didn’t want to answer, yet he must. She would know the truth all too soon. On his slate he wrote, Walter Ormond.
“My betrothed?” she whispered in her low, husky voice. She gave a weak, desperate laugh—challenging Guy to retract his words.
Sick at heart, he nodded.
“What is wrong with his face?” she gasped.
Pox, Guy wrote, then rubbed out the word, wishing he could erase Walter with equal ease.
“Mon Dieu!” A glazed look of despair spread across her features.
Guy wanted to seize her in his arms and run. He wanted to cast off his robe of peace and don his armor. He wanted to grind what was left of the miserable Ormond into the mud. Instead, he could do nothing but sit in silence upon a paltry donkey and pray Walter did not recognize him.
“By the devil’s bulging cock!” Gaston reined in his stallion beside Celeste. “The boy tells me those are the very dogs we left behind us. God’s teeth! We should have kept their horses. We shall fight them now.”
“Non.” Celeste shook her head, all the color drained from her cheeks. “We cannot. You see, dear Gaston, that is Walter Ormond—my husband-to-be.”
Guy tensed, waiting for Gaston to erupt in righteous anger. Instead, the man went white, then spoke to Celeste in a terse undertone. “Give me your leave, my lady, and I will make you a widow within the hour.”
Celeste shook her head. “Merci, Gaston, but I must see this... thing to the end, for the honor of my family.” Squaring her shoulders, she sat up straighter in the saddle as she watched the riders circle them.
Chapter Nineteen
“’T is the wench, I’ll warrant, m’lord!” Deighton’s unshaven face split into a leer. “An’ by the look o’her, she’ll fiddle a merry tune to your joints!”
After several weeks in Deighton’s gross company, Walter could hardly wait to be rid of him—with eight inches of good steel betwixt his ribs. Ignoring the foulmouthed knave, Ormond regarded his stiff little bride, who sat so primly in her saddle. She’d be pretty if she smiled. Walter clamped his jaws tighter. What woman had cast him a welcoming smile in the past six months?
“Celeste de Montcalm?” Walter shouted. Of course it must be she, but he’d best confirm it.
The wench inclined her head slightly. Was she afraid her headdress might fall off?
“Oui, ” she answered crisply.
Damn the chit! She wouldn’t even look directly at him! Walter vowed to remedy that in short order. “You’ve taken long enough to get here, woman.” He rode directly up to her side, pushing by a fuming old man. “I am Walter Ormond, son of Sir Roger Ormond, lord of Snape Castle. Have you no kiss of greeting for your husband?”
Celeste shot him a quick glance out of the corner of her eye, then stared ahead as before. “I am not married to you yet, my lord,” she replied in French.
“Hell and damnation, wench! Answer me in plain English. I’ll brook none of your foreign ways.” Walter sat back in his saddle, satisfied to see a stricken look flit across her face. Important to let her know who was the master now.
“I have no husband,” Celeste replied slowly in English. “And I give no kiss to you.” She stuck her little nose up in the air.
A dull headache throbbed in Walter’s temples. For a farthing, he’d haul the minx off her horse and whip her naked in front of them all. Only a shred of prudence stayed his hand. Once he had wed her, he could discipline her at his leisure. Beating that proud look off her face might prove highly entertaining.
“Understand this then, mistress mine. You will have a husband before the next hour has run its course.”
Her startled expression gave Walter immense satisfaction.
“But this is not possible!” She sent a pleading glance to the old man.
“You take us to Snape!” the gray beard bellowed.
Walter would send this meddlesome old bastard packing back to France as soon as possible—tonight, preferably. He shook his finger at the old man. “You do not give the orders here. I do!” Walter glared at the wench’s party, taking stock of each in turn. One old man, a half-dozen striplings, a boy and a lanky priest.
“We burn daylight!” Deighton growled behind him. “Get on with it, my lord, for I itch to settle a thing or two with these scum. They gave us the slip the other night, an’ I will have me own back on them. Aye!”
Walter clenched his fist tighter around his reins. Very soon he would serve Deighton his own justice. Until then, Walter knew, he must be patient. He dismounted and strode up to the girl.
“Then we shall tarry no longer.” He clamped his hand around Celeste’s wrist and yanked her out of her saddle. Light as a feather—easy to handle.
The pack of Frenchies started to draw their weapons, but Walter’s men acted faster. Excellent! Perhaps he would give the varlets a good feed before he killed them.
“What is this?” The girl tried to escape from his grip.
Spirited little thing! Walter concluded he’d have to tie her to the bedpost, before he whipped her. He liked that idea.
“’Tis our wedding, sweetheart. I have waited long enough.”
“Non!” She tried to slap him with her free hand, but Walter fetched her a blow across her face. The girl staggered, her dark eyes enormous. Her men swore, but they had been rendered powerless.
Walter tensed, waiting for her scream, but none came from her white throat. He had hit her hard enough; he could see the imprint of his hand on her cheek. No matter. Later on, he would make her shout the tower room down.
“Is not a good place for a wedding.” She practically spat the words in Walter’s face.
Ormond chuckled at her growing anger. Angry wenches excited him in bed, and Walter knew he needed all the encouragement he could get since the pox had taken over his body.
“Have you not heard of the old English custom of being married under a bush? Nay? ’Tis no matter. I say ’twill be done.” He pointed to the brown-robed priest, who sat still on an undersize donkey. “And here’s the very man who will do us the service. ’Twas most provident of you to bring your own confessor. You, priest! Get down and come here!�
�� he shouted. Probably this clod didn’t speak a wit of English.
Holding both his boiling anger and his voice in tenuous check, Guy slid off Daisy. When the knave struck Lissa, Guy had very nearly gone for Walter’s scrawny throat. If he had followed his inclination, Guy knew, he would now be lying dead in the frozen mud. Patience, he counseled himself. Keeping his head bowed so that Walter could not see his face, he stood close to Celeste. He felt, more than saw, that she trembled under her cloak.
Don’t let this scum know your fear, sweet Lissa. He will feast upon it.
“Do you understand my speech, priest?” Ormond shouted. “I want you to join us as man and wife.”
Guy nodded, then pointed toward a small rise away from the road.
“Damn you to the devil’s own broth, treacherous monk!” Gaston spat at him as they passed by him. Guy did not acknowledge the understandable insult. He prayed Gaston would react quickly when the time came.
Walter followed, pulling Celeste behind him. Everyone else stayed mounted, each side watching the little procession wend its way up the hillock. Guy drew to a halt on the other side of a lone tree, out of sight of the road. Fortunately, Walter had not noticed how far he was from his guard. Facing them, Guy tensed, waiting to catch Ormond off guard. Fortunately, Celeste stumbled on the trailing hem of her gown.
“Get up, damn you—”
The instant Walter diverted his attention, Guy sprang, throwing his bulk against the lighter man. Both of them hit the ground with a solid crash, Guy on top. Without pausing, the novice monk cocked his arm, then slammed his knotted fist into Walter’s putrid face. The cartilage of Ormond’s nose crumpled under the impact with a sickening crunch. Blood poured down Walter’s face.
“By the—”
Guy cut off further speech by drawing Walter’s sword and pricking his neck. The coward quaked underneath Guy, though red pinpoints of fury shone in his eyes. “What manner of priest are you?”
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