Celeste gripped the goblet. What manner of madhouse had she entered? Did Sir Roger never speak but to shout, bluster and yell? At least he seemed to believe her. The strong, unwatered wine began to work its potency upon her. If Sir Roger didn’t show her to a room very soon, Celeste feared she would fall asleep on the bench.
Guy stood closer behind her. As Sir Roger stalked about the flagstones, working himself up into a frenzy, Guy placed his hand on Celeste’s shoulder and squeezed it gently. She leaned back against his comforting form. She wondered if he could feel her trembling. Mustn’t close my eyes, she told herself. Meanwhile, Sir Roger fell into a loud discussion with another servant—one who looked almost as evil as Walter’s knaves. Mon Dieu! Did the Ormonds employ highwaymen and murderers?
“Go to it, Grapper!” Sir Roger concluded. “And bring him back here immediately—tied to a hurdle, if necessary.”
“A pleasure, my lord!” The brigand bowed to him, then smiled at Celeste. Two of his front teeth were missing. “Welcome to Snape Castle, my lady.”
“Tell me I am dreaming and that this is merely a nightmare, Brother Guy,” she murmured for his ear alone.
In answer, Guy squeezed her shoulder again, his long fingers gently caressing her tired, aching muscles.
Please don’t abandon me now, dear guardian angel! Despite her best intentions to stay awake, the room began to spin and dissolve, and a sweet blackness descended upon her.
Guy lifted his eyes to the small sanctuary candle flickering in its red glass globe. The cold wind off the moor whistled through the chinks in the chapel’s wall. Alone in the heart of night, Guy permitted himself the luxury of shivering in his single robe.
’Tis my penance, sweet Celeste, for having brought you to this pesthole.
At least she now lay safely tucked up in the late mistress’s bed. Guy himself had carried her unconscious form up the winding stairs to the bedroom, and made sure that his gentle charge would be well treated by the housekeeper, Mistress Conroy. The woman had a good face, he judged, and Celeste would come to no harm in her care.
Guy bowed his head again and prayed for guidance. In good faith, his duty was discharged. He had conducted the little bride to Snape Castle with both her dowry and her virtue intact. He could leave tomorrow morning with a clear conscience.
And abandon Celeste in this filthy den of howling wolves? Great Jove! When had the rushes last been swept? It would not surprise Guy one whit to spy a team of rats playing at ball under the high table. He had known Snape Castle would be grim, but not like this. How soon would these depressing surroundings quench Celeste’s fire and spirit?
Besides, Guy couldn’t leave her until Gaston and the others arrived. Then what? He dug his thumbs into the corners of his eyes and rubbed away the fatigue lurking there. He couldn’t possibly return south until the matter of Celeste’s marriage contract had been resolved. Marriage to whom?
Not to Walter, judging by the tenor of his father’s fury. Guy wondered if the York Grayfriar was right, and Sir Roger wanted Celeste for himself. Guy must stay by her side. Celeste needed his counsel.
Nay! If truth be told — and where else should truth live, but in God’s house?—Guy needed Celeste. Against all reason, and all vows made in solemn splendor and blessed with good intentions, Guy realized that he needed Celeste as a man needed air to breathe, water to drink, food for strength, fire for warmth—and a wife to love.
He sat back on his ankles and stared at the veiled tabernacle. When had he ever considered marriage? In his former life, lovemaking had held his interest, but never the irrevocable step of marriage. Guy had sworn not to be caught in those perfidious chains. Few women honored their vows to their husbands. He had proved that truth time and again at court. Few lords in the king’s circle escaped wearing the horns of a cuckold. The ladies had thrown themselves in Guy’s path at every opportunity.
Look at Great Harry himself! It might be treason to speak aloud against the latest whims of the king’s most accommodating conscience, but here in God’s silent company, in the furthermost reaches of the realm, Guy could ponder the king’s “great matter” in the safety of a cold chapel.
For over twenty years, good Queen Catherine had been the king’s most beloved and esteemed wife. Despite her Spanish background and accent, people high and low loved her. Then had come the dark-haired witch Anne Boleyn. Over night, it seemed, the finest prince in Christendom had turned into a cruel stranger as he danced attendance upon Mistress Anne while the poor queen pined away in her apartments. Though Guy boasted himself as no champion of virtue, he could not bear to see the court turn from the good queen, like a weathercock in a tempest. Finally, the king’s mad affair and the excesses of the fickle court had driven Guy into the monastery.
Now came his own black-haired witch to make him forget all his fine resolves and to think of—marriage? Nay! No matter who Celeste married, it could not be to Guy Cavendish—Brother Guy, who would soon take his final vows in the order of the Franciscans. Marriage was not an option for Guy.
Celeste is as true as fire, a little inner voice murmured to him, and she has come through fire to prove it.
Guy lifted his eyes once again to the flickering light above the altar. I am at a loss, Lord. What do you want me to do?
Chapter Twenty-Two
When Celeste awoke, she discovered that she had slept nearly a full day. During that time, Gaston, her men and even her few pieces of baggage had arrived at Snape Castle. After a hot bath, supplied by a grumbling Mistress Conroy, and a change into fresher clothing, Celeste ate a hearty meal of oat porridge, brown bread with butter and honey, baked salmon, baked pears and wedges of sharp cheddar. Thus fortified, she felt ready to face Sir Roger and the problem of her betrothal to his son.
Before descending to the hall, where she had been told he awaited her, Celeste opened the blue leather box containing her dowry. Despite the many mishaps she had endured to get to this lonesome, windy castle, the twelve apostle spoons still gleamed in their satin bed. Celeste ran her fingers lovingly over them for the last time. She plucked Saint Mark out of his place, breathed on the bowl of the spoon, then rubbed it with the trailing end of her oversleeve. She had always liked Mark’s little lion, crouched at the saint’s feet. The creature had such a soulful look, as if waiting for Mark to finish reading his book, so that they could go on a long walk through the fields.
With a small sigh, she replaced the spoon with its brothers. After pinching her cheeks to give herself a bit of color, she tucked the box under her arm and walked out the door.
Sir Roger slouched in an armchair in front of the central fireplace, which crackled and danced with a well-tended blaze. The master of the castle had drawn up a second chair opposite him. An open casket filled with parchments sat on a stout oak table between the chairs. Beside the casket, a dull silver wine pitcher with two goblets awaited the pleasure of Sir Roger. When Celeste made her appearance, Ormond rose and pointed to the empty seat. Though he had shaved and combed his hair, she noticed that he still wore the hose and doublet in which she had last seen him. As she drew nearer to her host, she could also detect an odor of grease, sweat and wet dog about him. Celeste applied her perfumed handkerchief to her nose and pretended to sneeze when he bowed to her.
A slight movement in the shadows of the inglenook caught her attention. She smiled with a mixture of pleasure and relief when Brother Guy stepped into the light and bowed to her. She wondered why he still pulled his cowl so low over his head, since she knew his tonsure had grown back long ago — unless, of course he had shaved it again, which she hoped he had not. Brother Guy looked much more handsome without that incongruous bald patch.
Celeste bit the inside of her cheek to remind herself that Brother Guy’s personal appearance should mean nothing to her, especially now that she had come face-to-face with her prospective father-in-law. She could not allow her mind to dwell on the obvious, painful differences between the beauty of Brother Guy’s face and heart and th
ose of Walter Ormond.
“Good evening, Lady Celeste,” Sir Roger softly growled as he returned to his seat. “I trust you slept well?”
“Very well, with my thanks, Sir Roger. The bed is most comfortable.” Sitting, Celeste spread out her blue brocade skirts and placed the leather box on her lap.
“Wine?” he growled again.
Celeste nodded. “Merci.” She came to the conclusion that Sir Roger must have damaged his voice from years of shouting and bellowing, and that this strange growl of his—like a dog who has cornered something unknown—was Sir Roger’s idea of gentle speech.
Guy stepped forward and filled two goblets. Celeste noticed he poured none for himself. He must be fasting again. Indeed, Brother Guy looked a little drawn and white about the mouth, which was the only part of his face she could see distinctly. The monk handed a goblet to Sir Roger, then one to Celeste. As she accepted the cup, his fingers caressed hers in passing. The tender sensation nearly caused her to spill the wine on her dress.
Sir Roger drank deeply, then set the goblet on the table. “I am a bluff man, my lady, and not one to spend half a day on courtly courtesies. Let us get down to cases.”
Celeste swallowed more wine than she had intended. She coughed into her handkerchief. “Pray, proceed,” she said when she could speak.
Sir Roger fixed her with a single piercing stare that reminded her of her father’s favorite peregrine. “You’ve met my son, Walter, and for his behavior, I apologize. Though it pains me to confess it, from his youth my son has been malicious, willful and hard-hearted. Of late, the corruption of both his nature and his body has so overcome whatever good points he may once have possessed that, like a wild horse which no bridle can hold, he runs headlong into disaster. No fear, shame, punishment, nor anything that I have devised, has prevailed upon him to pull him back from his fall into perdition. The long and short of it, my lady, is that he is not fit to wed you.”
Celeste relaxed against the high back of her chair. Thank the angels and saints above! She could go home now with a clear conscience. “I give you much thanks for your understanding, Sir Roger.” Celeste took another sip of wine.
“Aye.” Standing abruptly, Sir Roger poked at the fire for a moment before he cleared his voice, rumbling like distant thunder. “You may not know, but I have recently lost my second wife and two younger children.”
Celeste set her goblet down and leaned forward. “No, my lord, I did not. It grieves me to hear of it.”
“For your sympathy, much thanks, but that does not settle my problem.”
The slight shift of the tone in his voice set off a little warning bell inside Celeste’s head. The wind was up, but she didn’t know which way it blew. She had a feeling that it boded no good for her. “Your problem, my lord?” she echoed.
Silently moving like the wraith he looked, Guy took a position directly behind Celeste’s chair. If she had wanted to, she could have touched his sleeve merely by extending her hand.
Sir Roger replaced the heavy poker against the brick of the fireplace, then faced her. Behind him, the flames leapt higher, as if they had sprung from hell. “My problem is this. I have worked all my life to amass a goodly estate and to build up our family’s reputation. I am in need of an heir—a healthy heir—who will live after me and inherit all that I have gained. My son Walter is not worthy of my title and, given the opportunity, he would beggar my fortune within a year—should he live so long.”
A cold breath of fear wrapped itself around Celeste. Did he mean to wed her himself? Please, dear God, she prayed, do not let this happen to me. She pressed her spine against the unyielding chairback.
“The nut and core is this—you have come to marry into the Ormond family. I am in need of a wife to give me another heir. Therefore, Lady Celeste, I will marry you as soon as the banns are published.”
Celeste wanted to scream, “No!” but knew she could not. Admittedly, the father was a better match than his worm-eaten son. On the other hand, Sir Roger was a far cry from her dreams of the glorious Knight of the Loyal Heart, riding out on his beautiful white charger to claim her. Sir Roger was too old, too war-torn, for her taste. Rough in manners, as well as in voice, he frightened her. She had come all this way to find love and protection. Instead, a grizzled old bear and a scaly, half-grown serpent greeted her. She clutched her box of spoons, while her mind spun in a whirlwind of fearful emotions.
Without giving her a chance to speak, Sir Roger took another fierce gulp of his wine, then pawed through the casket until he found the paper he desired. “’Tis the marriage contract signed by your father and me eight years ago in France. Perchance you remember?”
Dully Celeste nodded. “May I see it?” she asked in a weak voice.
Sir Roger blinked his good eye. “You can read?”
Celeste lifted her chin. “Both Latin and French.”
“I don’t hold with educating women,” he muttered, though he relinquished the parchment into her hands.
Celeste quickly scanned the simple Latin phrasing of the contract. In very straightforward terms, it stated that Roland de Montcalm, chevalier of Fauconbourg, gave his fifth daughter, Celeste Marie, in marriage to Walter, son of Sir Roger Ormond of Snape Castle, upon her eighteenth birthday. The dowry agreed upon was more vague— divers goods of silver and gold. Celeste closed her eyes for a moment. Oh, Papa, what a cunning mind you have! Both men had signed the parchment and affixed their seals to it. The red wax had darkened with age, but there was no mistaking its authenticity.
Sir Roger took back the contract, as if he were afraid she would throw it into the fire. “About the dowry,” he growled. “I presume you brought it with you?”
Mutely Celeste handed him the box of spoons. While Sir Roger put it on the table and lighted a candle to better examine the contents, Celeste cast a troubled look at Guy. In answer, he took her hand and held it. For a wild, brief moment, she wished he could clasp her to himself in the same way he clasped her hand in his. Of all the men she had known in her short life, Brother Guy was the closest to her ideal knight, though he wore only a simple brown robe and scuffed sandals.
“Such beauties!” Sir Roger took out each spoon and held it up to the candle’s flame. “We have little chance to see such fine workmanship this far to the north.”
Celeste hid her amazement. She knew her poor little spoons were not half so fine or as large as those given to her elder sisters. The saints be praised that Sir Roger didn’t know the difference!
“I look forward to seeing the rest of your dowry, if all your other pieces are as well made as these.”
The dreaded moment had arrived. A dull pain formed at Celeste’s temples. Guy squeezed her hand tighter. She might as well get it over with. Perhaps Sir Roger would reject her if the dowry did not please him.
Celeste assumed her haughtiest look. “That is my dowry, Sir Roger. Every jot and tittle of it. The apostle spoons are indeed ‘divers goods of gold and silver,’ according to the marriage contract.” She leveled her gaze at him, though inside she quaked. He wouldn’t dare strike her, would he?
“What?” Sir Roger slammed the spoons onto the table. Several apostles fell to the floor with a clatter that startled the dozing wolfhound. “The devil take it!”
The master of the castle drew himself up, swelling in size like a bullfrog. Celeste tensed, waiting for his explosion. Guy stepped around the chair, shielding her with his body.
“I have been poorly used!” Sir Roger bellowed. “Your father has cheated me of the fortune he promised me! I should have known not to trust that malmsey-nosed French knave!”
A mixture of burning anger and cold shame choked Celeste. She opened her mouth to defend her family’s honor, but the strong pressure of Guy’s thumb on the back of her hand stopped her. He shook his head when she glanced up at him.
Sir Roger splashed more wine into his goblet, then drank it down in one gulp. “Did you know of this perfidy?” he asked, staring at Celeste, his one eye glo
wering in the firelight.
She took a deep breath before answering. “Eight years ago, my father signed that contract in good faith, my lord. I was his youngest child then, and so he expected to endow me with all the requisite goods. Since that time, my four older sisters married—each with a dowry larger than anticipated. Then my little brother was born. Now that my father has an heir, naturally he wants to preserve the bulk of his estate for Philippe.”
Without giving Sir Roger a chance to renew his diatribe, Celeste rose, with all the dignity she could muster. “If my dowry displeases you, you may send me packing at any time. If this is your intention, please inform me soon, so that my men and I may return to France before your foul English weather locks us here in your...home until spring. I bid you good night, my lord.” Still clutching Guy’s strong hand, Celeste made a dignified exit.
Her fortitude carried her as far as the top of the stairs, where her knees gave out under her. If Guy had not been at her side, she would have tumbled backward, down the stone spiral steps. Guy lifted her in his arms and carried her into her room, where he laid her on the bed.
“What will become of me now, Brother Guy?” she asked, though she did not expect an answer from the silent monk. “I am a pawn in old men’s follies. I cannot stay here. I cannot return home a rejected spinster. Perhaps I should enter a convent, but I do not think I was born to be a nun.” She hugged one of the thick bolsters and gazed into the low fire in the grate.
Folding back his cowl, Guy revealed the sad expression in the depths of his sapphire eyes. Kneeling by the bedside, he took both her cold hands in his and brushed his lips across her fingers. The shock of his intimate touch sent her jangled emotions into exciting unexplored territory. Celeste gasped as a liquid fire coursed through her. A low moan escaped her lips.
Instantly Guy dropped her hands and stood, turning his broad back to her.
“Pardonnez-moi, Brother Guy. I am at sixes and sevens and know not what to do. Please do not turn away from me now. I feel so friendless in this cold place. My sorrow is such that I have cause to eat my bread with ashes.” Celeste lay back on the bed and stared, unseeing, at the shabby canopy above her.
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