Guy crossed to the fireplace and tossed a few more logs onto the flames. Soon a brighter fire blazed merrily in the room. Then he returned to Celeste’s side and flashed her a brief, heaven-kissed smile, that lightened her mood. At least, Brother Guy would remain faithful to her — as a true knight should.
He wrote on his slate, Sir Roger loves his wealth better than a wife.
Celeste’s lips quirked in a rueful smile. “Now you tell me this? Fah! So play the prophet, good Brother. What am I to do?”
Guy folded his hands and stared thoughtfully at the floor.
If he suggests I pray for the answer, I shall box his handsome ears! Celeste sat quietly, though her stomach churned inside her. How ghastly the meeting had been. Far worse than she had imagined it. Sacrebleu! What if Sir Roger decided to wed her to Walter after all, just to spite her? She balled her hands into fists. If he tried that, she would run away across the moors. Death would make a better bridegroom for her!
Feeling a sob well up in her throat, she bit her knuckles until the pain banished her self-pity. Turning at her muffled sounds, Guy frowned when he saw her chewing on her fingers. He took them from her mouth, and gently rubbed the reddened joints. Celeste longed to lay her head against his shoulder and cry out her heart’s sorrow. Only propriety and her sense of family honor held her back.
The troubadours had sung of the de Montcalms’ courage in battle for the past three hundred years. Though she was only a woman, Celeste knew she had the blood of those brave warriors in her veins. Besides, what would her mother, not to mention Aunt Marguerite, say if they saw her in the arms of a cleric—a young, breathtakingly handsome monk?
Guy finished his ministrations far too soon. Then he took out his slate.
Delay, he wrote.
Confused by his single word of advice, Celeste plucked at the threadbare patches on the woolen bedcover. “I do not understand, Brother Guy. Delay what?”
Your marriage, he wrote under the first word.
She cocked one eyebrow at him. “You think he will have me either for himself or his son? Pah!”
He needs an heir. The chalk words burned into her brain.
“And I am merely the means, oui?”
Guy hooded his eyes, and the room seemed somehow darker. He slowly nodded. Then he pointed to the word, Delay.
“I would gladly do that until doomsday, Brother Guy. But how? Why?”
Guy rubbed out the first message, then wrote, Advent starts at midnight day after tomorrow.
Celeste studied the message carefully. Advent was the church’s time of fasting and penance before the solemn feast of Christmas. Four weeks during which no songs were sung, there was no dancing in the hall, no red meats were eaten—and no marriages were performed. An invisible weight slid off her shoulders.
“What can happen in four weeks?” she ask softly.
A miracle, he wrote, then added, Pray.
Guy slipped into the drafty hall after bidding Celeste good-night. He knew he left her with a lighter heart, for she had tried to entice him into playing a game of piquet. For the safety of his shaky vows, he declined.
It was all well and good that Celeste felt better, but what of himself? The delaying tactic, which he had first conceived in the peace of York Minster, would work temporarily, but what miracle could he hope for on Christmas morning? He didn’t know the answer, only that he felt strongly in need of the extra time.
Deep within his soul, Guy knew that he must stay at Snape until the resolution of Celeste’s dilemma. Father Jocelyn must have foreseen this. Hadn’t he placed Guy’s vow of silence upon him until Celeste’s wedding day? On that fateful day, Guy would speak to Celeste in his own voice—and when he did, he would not congratulate her on her marriage to an Ormond.
As Guy crossed the upper gallery, he heard angry voices below in the hall. The stone walls of the castle echoed and reechoed with the turbulent meeting between father and son. Drawing his cowl low over his face, Guy stole down the stairs to listen and observe.
“The wench is rightfully mine, by all that’s holy,” snarled Walter. He paced in front of the fireplace. Guy noted that the younger Ormond limped slightly. Perhaps he had tried to walk home barefoot.
“Do not speak of what’s right and what’s holy — at least not in the same breath, you changeling!” Sir Roger stopped more wine into his goblet. Guy wondered how much the elder Ormond had drunk since Celeste had left him.
“The bitch used me poorly, and I mean to return her the compliment—either as her husband or as her stepson. Mark my words, I shall be revenged upon her and that mangy cur of a priest.” The firelight outlined Walter’s ghastly sores with a hellish paintbrush. He looked like one of the damned in an illuminated manuscript.
Sir Roger leaned over his son, his bulk dwarfing the emaciated man. “And you mark me, dissembling villain, you will not touch a hair of the lass’s head, or I’ll spare you any further suffering of your... illness. She’ll get me a fine son in your place—aye, two or three, by the look of her hips. As for her confessor, ’tis a mortal sin to strike down a priest.”
“And you’re afraid for my soul?” Walter sneered.
“I care not a fig for it—but you shall soon, when you roast on the devil’s coals. Be gone! I’ll hear no more of your puling. The lady will be my bride, and you can go hang yourself. Ayel And take those unhallowed slaves of yours with you. You will be in fine company then!” Shattering the goblet against the side of the fireplace, Sir Roger stomped from the hall.
Walter stared into the dying fire for a long time, while Guy watched from the bottom of the steps. Then, with a terrible oath, Walter limped away in the opposite direction.
Guy pressed his back against the clammy wall and sent a heartfelt prayer to heaven. Give me a lance, a sword and my charger for one hour, Lord, and I will praise your name forevermore.
Chapter Twenty-three
“Good Morrow, my lady! I have goodly news for you.” Sir Roger’s voice boomed across the hall and echoed down the soot-encrusted rafters as Celeste entered at the far end of the room.
Her heart thumped against her ribs, and a thick knot formed in her throat. Though she had not known her host for long, Celeste already realized that a cheerful tone was not Sir Roger’s usual one. Biting her lower lip to keep it from quivering, she cast quick glances up and down the sides of the huge hall, hoping to spy a familiar face there, either one of her men’s or Brother Guy’s—especially Guy’s.
Save for Sir Roger, the redheaded steward and that huge sleeping hound, the hall was empty. As Celeste approached Sir Roger’s chair, he waved the steward away.
“Good news is always welcome, my lord,” she replied evenly as she sat in the chair he offered her.
“I have given the matter of your marriage contract much thought, mistress. Though your perfidious father tricked me in the matter of your dowry, I shall not hold that against you.” He folded his arms across his chest and beamed down at her.
Celeste ran her tongue across her teeth. Brother Guy was right. Sir Roger did mean to wed her, no matter what. Under the loose folds of her dress, she knotted her fingers together. Sweet Saint Anne, give me courage!
“I am glad to hear of it, my lord.” Where was Brother Guy?
“As for Walter, even if I were disposed for him to wed, your dowry is too poor for an eldest son. No one would dispute that.”
“Of course not:” Celeste lowered her lashes, though she continued to study Sir Roger through her half-dosed eyes. Obviously she was not the only one who had sat up half the night considering her plight.
“But, as my third wife, a large dowry is not so necessary, especially considering your youth, your beauty and your good health.”
Particularly my good health for childbearing. I wonder if he will examine my teeth as he would a brood mare’s?
“Therefore I have decided to overlook the letter of the agreement, and instead honor the spirit of the contract. Your father gave you to an Ormond, and you sha
ll wed an Ormond — tomorrow.”
Though she had expected something like this, the actual sound of it sent a shudder through her. She felt a momentary wave of panic as her mind scrambled to recall Guy’s advice. Delay. She drew in a deep breath and willed her trembling body to relax.
“You do me a great honor, Sir Roger....” she began. A rustling in a shadowed archway caught her attention. Brother Guy, his hood once again concealing most of his face, glided into the room. Celeste relaxed her shoulders as she continued.
“But there is one thing that my mind misgives, Sir Roger.”
“What?” he barked. The dozing wolfhound merely twitched his ear in his sleep.
Celeste lifted her chin a notch. “The marriage contract states very clearly that it is your son I am to wed. I must inform my father of the change in the terms and receive his permission to marry you, my lord. Surely you agree it is the honorable thing to do, n’est-ce pas?”
“The devil fiddle ’em!” Sir Roger bellowed. “’Twould take till Candlemas to send a message to France and receive an answer. A plague on it, mistress! ’Tis wintertime. Haven’t you noticed that there is ice in your pitcher in the mornings?”
Guy lightly rested his hand on her shoulder. His warm touch reassured Celeste. “Mais oui, Sir Roger. I have already had the pleasure of the snow down my back and in my shoes. But hear me out, I beg you—” To her dismay, her voice broke slightly. She hurried on. “I am sure that my father would be most pleased to agree to this new proposal.” She cocked her head and allowed a coquettish smile to play upon her lips. “And perhaps he would even be disposed to send a larger dowry.”
Guy squeezed her shoulder. Celeste drew strength from the warmth of his approval. Sir Roger sank into the chair opposite hers and leaned over to scratch the dog’s massive head. The animal sighed with pleasure.
“A larger dowry, say you?” Sir Roger repeated, with a thoughtful look in his single eye.
Celeste released the breath she held. “Oui, my lord. To do you the proper honor, as you are lord of Snape Castle.” She could almost hear the clink of the gold coins that danced in Sir Roger’s greedy imagination.
“’Tis a tempting thought, my lady, and one that I had not considered.”
Emboldened by her first success, Celeste pressed on. “Also, my lord, my goodly Brother Guy reminds me that Advent comes apace. The time between now and Christmas would allow a message to be sent to L’Étoile. In the meantime, I could begin to learn my new duties as mistress of this house....” She cast a swift glance at the shocking disrepair of the great hall. It would take a decade to clean up the filth. “And I could practice my English, so that I would be more pleasing to my husband.” She ended by fluttering her long lashes.
“Advent,” Ormond rumbled under his breath. “Bestrew me! Another time of fasting and alms-giving. Fire and brimstone, mistress mine! So be it! Tonight we shall make merry over this new betrothal, and feast until bursting—enough to last us four weeks of wilted greens, brown bread and water.”
Celeste turned her smile of triumph into one of pleasant acquiescence. “And come Christmastide, Sir Roger, we shall have a wedding feast and a tournament to celebrate our marriage!”
“Tournament?” Ormond bristled his shaggy brows. “Expensive.”
“Oui!” Celeste agreed. If Brother Guy’s miracle did not happen, at least she would have the excitement of a tournament. For one day, she would realize her dream of being the Queen of Truth and Beauty. After that, she could bear the weight of being Sir Roger’s wife—and by the size of him, that weight would be heavy indeed.
“I would so love to see you joust in my honor, my lord.” Cocking her head, Celeste laughed lightly. “Oh, la, la, I think you make a very handsome knight,” she purred, again fluttering her lashes.
To her surprise, Sir Roger flushed red, like a schoolboy caught in his first kiss. “Aye, I have broken my share of lances in the past. Well, my lady, if your heart’s desire is a tournament to celebrate our nuptials, then you shall have one—a small one, mind you.”
Celeste clapped her hands with glee. Arranging and practicing for a tournament would keep Sir Roger occupied for the weeks to come, and leave her free to clean up his house in peace. “Merci beaucoup, my lord. I shall be so proud of you!”
“Cease your tongue-wagging, mistress mine,” he growled, though he smiled as he spoke. “So we have an agreement, eh? On the day after Christmas, Saint Stephen’s Day, we will be wed and you shall have your tournament, I vow. Come now... Celeste, let us seal this bargain between us with a sweet betrothal kiss.” He stood and held out his arms to her. “And you, monk, will be witness to the plighting of our troth.”
Celeste fixed a smile firmly on her face, though inwardly she quailed. The only men she had ever kissed before were her father and brother. From observing her parents, she knew that a kiss was part of marriage, but until this moment she had not realistically considered who would be her partner in this new experience. Sir Roger’s face, even softened as it was now, bore the fearful marks of several battles and a hard, angry life. She rose from her chair and advanced toward him, reminding herself that kissing the father was infinitely preferable to placing her lips against the thin, rotting ones of his son.
Sir Roger enfolded her in a crushing embrace and bent her backward over his arm, so that her slippers barely brushed the floor. Suppressing her initial instinct to struggle against him, Celeste tried to relax in his arms, though she felt she would crash to the flagstones at any moment. Before she could compose herself, he attacked her mouth, planting his thick lips around hers. His whisker bristle scraped against her chin and under her nose as he pressed himself hard against her. She couldn’t breathe. When she opened her mouth in panic, Ormond’s thick wet tongue pushed itself inside, and began sucking on hers. Celeste almost gagged. Tears pricked behind her eyelids. At long last, Sir Roger withdrew from her lips, though he still gripped her in his hands.
“Cupid have mercy, wench! You taste as sweet as a honeycomb,” he rumbled. “’Twill be a penance indeed to wait four weeks afore I can dip into your honey pot. Once more, say I!” He swooped down on her bruised mouth again.
Celeste closed her eyes this time, held her breath and endured his shameful thrusts between her lips. This treatment must be part of what Aunt Marguerite had hinted at in such dire tones on their last evening together, in the priory. Mon Dieu, good Aunt! I wish you were here with me now!
Guy rattled the chair behind them. The grating sound broke through Sir Roger’s eager occupation, and slowly he released Celeste, nipping at her lower lip as he did so. Celeste’s head spun and she felt the first inkling of another headache announce itself. Oui, she would spend the rest of the morning locked in her room with a cold compress. The prospect sounded delightful.
“Your confessor has reminded me in time, my sweet ducky, or else I might not have waited for the holy words to make you mine in truth.” Sir Roger’s boisterous laughter rocked Celeste’s fragile sense of balance, and woke the huge hound at her feet. “I bid you adieu, until we meet at dinner. Aye, and I’ll want another one of those kisses for my sweet course!”
Snapping his fingers at the dog, Ormond turned on his heel and lumbered across the hall. He disappeared down the stairs to the courtyard, whistling out of tune. Celeste collapsed in his chair and massaged her temples. The headache rose up in full force behind her eyeballs.
“Zut alors, Brother Guy! I fear Christmastide will come too soon. If I must endure attentions like that, I doubt I shall last until Twelfth Night. By my heel, that man killed his other two wives with his...kissing!” She wiped her lips with her handkerchief.
When Sir Roger clasped the lady to his barrel chest, Guy had gripped the carved knob on the back of Celeste’s chair to keep himself from snatching her out of Ormond’s lascivious clutches.
His conscience had fired a warning bolt. She is not yours. She belongs to Sir Roger.
Nevertheless, the sight of her frightened expression as Ormon
d plundered his prize had almost torn Guy’s voice out of his vow. By her quick wits and his advice, Celeste had bought herself four weeks of grace, but what then?
After Ormond left the hall, Guy knelt before his shaken lady. He dropped his hood back so that he could see her better. He wondered how long it would be before Sir Roger or the villainous Walter discovered the identity of Celeste’s silent “confessor.” No doubt they would evict him with unholy oaths in his ear, despite the fact that Guy’s father was their overlord. For a generation, hot words, bitter accusations and occasional bloodshed had flowed between the greedy, grasping Ormonds and their liege lords, the Cavendish family. Guy longed to snatch up this poor, shaken flower and ride with her to the safety of his father’s house. Only his honor, now fraying around the edges, kept him from doing it.
Celeste blew her nose into the handkerchief. Her lips quivered a smile at Guy, though her beautiful violet eyes shimmered with unshed tears. “Thank you for being here, good Brother,” she whispered. “I do not think I could have persuaded him to wait, had you not come.”
Guy bowed his head. She was probably right. Had Ormond not been bedazzled by the gleaming thought of more dowry, he would have realized he could marry Celeste tonight, before Advent began. Guy took her hands in his. They were hot and damp with her fear.
“And so, mon ami, I have four weeks to clean up this pigsty of a castle and to make a gown to be married in, since I lost my first one in the river two months ago. And yes, Brother Guy, I will pray, as you suggested. I will pray so much you will be astounded.”
Guy took out his slate. Why a tournament? he wrote.
Celeste lifted her shoulders in her delightful little shrug, which he had come to love. “Why not? That is my wedding present, for I think after that, there will be no more merriment for a long time to come.” She drew her wing-swept brows together. “There are times, Brother Guy, when I think I would like to be a man. This is one of them.”
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