Fearing that his great joy might prompt him to speak to Celeste and reveal his identity to her, Guy stole away from the Christmas feast and hurried back to Brandon’s secret camp beyond the forest. He never felt the cold wetness of the snow seeping through his sandals, or the bitter winds from the North Sea that tore at his ragged robe. His cheerful spirit warmed him as he crossed the frozen field, and his heart truly did possess golden wings.
The day’s merry celebrations wound down early, as everyone wanted to get a good night’s sleep for the tournament on the morrow. Sir Roger kissed his betrothed often during the evening supper, in full view of his guests, who urged their host with much cheering to even more public displays of his affection. Celeste bore his invasions of her mouth and person with as good a grace as she could muster in the face of the grinning horde, though as each hour passed her heart grew heavier. At last, pleading a headache, she excused herself from the company.
“Aye, there’s a wench!” Sir Roger bellowed in English as Celeste started up the stairs to her room. “Tomorrow at this time, my friends, I shall wait upon that lady and forward her desire to lead a merrier life!”
Though shamed by his thinly veiled vulgarity, Celeste held her head high and pretended she had not understood a word he said.
“In truth, I am sorely tempted to experience her delights much sooner!” Clamorous banging on the tables greeted Sir Roger’s remark.
After rounding the bend of the stairs, Celeste picked up her skirts of yellow satin and raced for her room. Not tonight! Sweet Jesu! Please, not yet!
Just as she reached her door, she heard Lord Jeffrey’s voice. “Nay, be not so hot, old man, or you’ll spend yourself in one volley. Save your strength for the lists tomorrow, for I intend to unhorse you before your fair bride.”
“Think you so, prattling drunkard?” Sir Roger’s roar bounced off every wall. “Nay, ’tis impossible that I should be brought low by such a varlet as yourself!”
“How low?” Lord Jeffrey retorted. “By my troth, I shall bring you low this night.”
“Listen to the jackdaw croak! What weapons do you choose? Sword or broomstick?”
“Nay, by sack wine! Ho, churls! Fill our cups to overflowing, and let us see who falls first!”
Pausing with her hand on the latch, Celeste breathed a sigh of relief. Thanks to Lord Jeffrey’s taunting challenge, Ormond had forgotten all about her. She flung open the door and rushed inside.
“My—my lady!” Pip jumped from where he had been kneeling by her bed. “Good evening to ye!”
Celeste eyed the red-faced boy. What manner of mischief was his intent? She crossed her arms over her breast. “Hey-ho, Peep! What is it you do here, eh? A frog to warm my bed, perhaps?”
Pip backed away from the canopied four-poster as if it had suddenly burst into flames. “Nay, my lady! Faith, no frog with any wit about him is out this cold night.”
“Oui, so what have you put in my bed—a poor witless worm?” Celeste bit the inside of her cheeks to keep from laughing. Pip looked so deliciously guilty. He reminded her of her pranks at home. “Come, come. I have caught you—how you say?—fair and square. Show me this Christmas surprise.”
Pip opened his mouth, but his protest of innocence died on his lips when he saw Celeste pick up a switch from the kindling. Nearly tripping over his new shoes, he dashed for the bed and lifted the top bolster. Shyly he handed her a small packet tied with a red ribbon. Celeste softened when she saw his gift.
“Oh, Peep! It is not yet New Year’s Day. Your gift is early.”
Pip drew himself up. “’Tis nae mine to give. I am a messenger.” His thin shoulders slumped. “An’ a poor one, to be found out.”
“I am the judge of that.” Celeste untied the ribbon, and revealed a simple golden ring with the words, Pencez moi, engraved on it. The paper that had wrapped it bore no name, only the beloved sign of the winged heart. Think of me, her Knight begged her, with his golden circle signifying eternal love.
“Who gave this to you?” she asked, when she could finally speak without a tear in her voice.
“By’r Larkin!” Pip breathed, ogling the ring. “’Tis a pretty piece o’ work, that!”
“But where did you get it?” Celeste slipped it onto the third finger of her left hand, and was pleased that it fit perfectly.
He backed toward the door. “Nay, I swear by the moon, I did nae steal it!”
“Little knave! Who gave you this ring?” She changed her tone into one of gentle wheedling. “Please tell me, Peep.”
The boy swallowed. “I would if’n I could, my lady, but I did swear upon a sword—aye, an’ a sharp sword ’twas tool—that I would nae tell no one. Ye can rack me or hang me in chains, ’twon’t do ye nae good. I pledged me word” Despite his brave speech, Pip looked very nervous, as if he feared Celeste might put him to some hideous torture.
“Then tell me this, Peep. Is the Knight of the Loyal Heart ver-rey handsome?”
The relieved boy broke into a wide grin. “Bein’ no lady like ye, I am a poor judge, but I tell ye true—your knight is the best man in the world for ye, my lady. An’ he loves ye full sore. Is that handsome enough?”
Celeste’s only answer was tears of joy. The sight of them rolling down her cheeks unnerved Pip. With a hurried wish for sweet dreams, he bolted from the room.
Far into the magical night of Christmas, when all the animals of the world were said to speak at midnight, Celeste sat before her fire and admired the flames’ reflection in the slim golden band around her finger.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
In the darkness of early morning on Saint Stephen’s Day, Celeste awoke with a dull headache and a great lump in her throat. Burrowing deeper under the feather quilting, she listened to the wind whistling outside the window. Her wedding day had arrived—the most important day in her life—and Celeste wanted to turn the calendar either forward or backward. She grimaced as she thought of the next twenty-four hours.
The newness of the golden ring on her finger reminded her of the one ray of hope. The Knight of the Loyal Heart, no longer a figment of her imagination, would finally make his appearance today. Pip had seen him, talked with him. Whatever else happened to her, Celeste would treasure this dream come true for the rest of her days as the mistress of bleak Snape Castle.
“Dress warmly, my lady.” Mistress Conroy bustled into the room, followed by Nan, who carried a steaming mug of spiced wine. “’Tis a day fit to shatter the devil’s tail.”
Celeste wished the housekeeper didn’t sound so cheerful.
“Faith, my lady, I’ve ne’er seen such a crop o’ handsome men as have come t’ do ye honor,” Nan rhapsodized as she poked up the fire into a roaring blaze. “More came in the middle o’ the night. By’r Larkin, my lady! There’s horses an’ pages everywhere, an’ the meadow looks like the grandest thing since...” Nan paused, wrinkling her brow. “Since I’ve ne’er seen before,” she finished.
Celeste’s heart skipped a beat. Her knight must have come! Ignoring the chill of the room, she threw off the covers and dashed to the window. Clucking behind her, Mistress Conroy held out her furred robe. At least a hundred cooking fires burned in the velvet blackness of the field below the ramparts. Even at this distance, Celeste heard good-natured shouting, and the metallic jingle of harness for both the men and their horses.
“How many of the knights have come?” she asked breathlessly as Mistress Conroy guided her back to the warmth of the hearth.
“By my troth! ’Tis more’n we’ve seen in my lifetime.” The housekeeper ran a brush through Celeste’s hair, working to loosen the tangles after a restless night. “There’s the Lords of Morpeth, Brownlow, young Sir Harry Percy from Alnwick, a-hiding from his shrewish wife, Rothbury, the master of Cheviot, an’ even the Earl of Thornbury himself. He’s Sir Roger’s overlord, an’ hasn’t been here in a friendly manner for years. Brought his lady wife, as well.”
“Is the earl a quarrelsome man?” asked Celeste as Nan
dropped several woolen petticoats over her head before tying them around Celeste’s waist.
Mistress Conroy pursed her lips before answering, “The earl has never liked the master, and Sir Roger returns the favor.”
“Sir Roger’s done a right lot to make his way in the world, my lady,” Nan whispered. “He got himself married to a noblewoman with property—that be his first wife, more than twenty years ago, afore my time. Me da said that Sir Roger planted his crops on lands that weren’t his—”
“Nan, watch that prattlin’ tongue of yours, lest it get cut out!” snapped Mistress Conroy.
“Non, I wish to hear all.” Celeste chewed on her lower lip. She knew she shouldn’t be listening to the servants’ gossip, but the tale they told explained a great deal about her bellowing husband-to-be.
Knowing she had Celeste’s full attention, Nan preened. “Me da said that the master took bits of the earl’s land over the years. Bits that the earl had ne’er used. Me da said that Sir Roger gained as much land in twenty years as his father did in an hour on Bosworth field. Aye, an’ each year the taxes got higher for the folk what lives on that land. When his first wife died, straightaway he married again.”
“Lady Edith, God rest her soul.” Mistress Conroy crossed herself again, then tied on a second set of fur-lined sleeves over Celeste’s tight red velvet ones.
“Aye, an’ she brought my lord more gold for his coffers. The earl has threatened to make all right with the poor folk on the lands he claims, but Sir Roger has the sheriff o’ York a-lickin’ his codpiece, an’—”
“Nan!” Mistress Conroy shot the maid a murderous look. “You best watch your mouth, girl. Lady Celeste may not speak our English fair yet, but I reckon she knows a word or two.”
Celeste knew exactly what Nan had meant, and the information troubled her. Sir Roger had made it clear that once she was married, Gaston and the others were no longer welcome at Snape. With only Pip as her guardian, she would be totally at the mercy of a rapacious, greedy man.
“If Sir Roger is so tight with his money, why does he have this tournament, eh?” she asked thoughtfully. Outside, the sky began to lighten with the dull gray of dawn.
“Lord have mercy, my lady! He expects your father to pay for that. I heard him say as much to Talbott, when the steward asked him that very question.” Mistress Conroy brushed back the stray tendrils of Celeste’s hair before adjusting the red-and-black French hood on her head.
Icy flutters spread themselves through Celeste’s empty stomach. She knew that her father would not send another sou after her. His troublesome, mischief-making fifth daughter was locked up tight in a castle at the coldest end of the earth, and there she could stay, in whatever state her husband pleased to keep her. Though her lips quivered at the thought of Sir Roger’s ire when he discovered the empty lie of an enlarged dowry, Celeste lifted her head proudly. At least this one day was hers. Today she was the Queen of Truth and Beauty, and she planned to savor it to the dregs.
Before descending the stairs, she looked out once again at the encampment. The colorful pavilions and banners snapped in the brisk north wind. Though she searched each heraldic device in turn, nowhere did she spy the beloved symbol of the winged heart. Instead, an old familiar one caught her eye.
“Ma foi! Mistress Conroy, who is that with the wicked wolf’s head?”
The housekeeper squinted in the direction where Celeste pointed. “Aye, that is the one I was a-tellin’ ye about, my lady. That belongs to the earl of Thornbury.”
Memories of another tournament, on a windy summer’s day in France, welled up inside Celeste’s mind. Memories of a tall knight on a dark gray war-horse—one who hadn’t seen her outstretched favor. “Oh, la, la! I think perhaps the earl will notice me today, oui?” she murmured, more to herself than to the two women beside her.
“He won’t help but t’ notice ye, my lady,” Nan pronounced. “Ye look fit for a king.”
Sir Roger, garbed in his padded jacket and thick hose for the joust, greeted his bride in the hall, bestowing on her a long, lusty kiss. His male guests approved with a mixture of amusement and envy.
“Give over, Ormond!” Jeffrey of Brownlow called. “For tasting such sweetness, you might have broken your fast before mass.”
Let the dog bark! Roger had them all by the tail this day. Aye! Even that priggish Thornbury had to dance to his tune. Sir Roger slid his arm around Celeste’s waist as they went into the chapel together.
A pox on it! He and his little bride should be saying their marriage vows this minute, instead of waiting until after supper! Roger’s eye ran hungrily over the raven-haired beauty. What a delicious morsel awaited him this evening! He cared not who knew it. Let the rest of them lust after her all they wanted. Aye, let every dog of them whimper for her, and so fail in the day’s sport. This tournament idea of hers was not such a bad one after all. Never had Roger seen so many of his enemies under his roof at the same time. He looked around the chapel and chuckled. Every last one of the rump-fed rogues envied him this day! Roger pulled Celeste tighter against him.
What was the matter with the little minx now? He cast her a look meant to quell, but she didn’t see it. Instead, she seemed to be looking around the filled chapel for someone, while the dithering old priest droned through the Introit prayer. What knave had caught her fancy already? No more of that, mistress mine! I’ll imprint myself so deep in you this night, you’ll never wish to look for another.
At the conclusion of Saint Stephen’s mass, the great hall erupted with the loud calls for bread and meat. Dogs barked and fought with each other over the scraps. Serving men and wenches waded through the noisy, jostling throng holding heaped platters over their heads. Everyone ate standing up. As soon as the knights finished and rinsed their hands in the proffered ewers, they dashed off to the encampment beyond the walls. Their ladies, attired in every hue made possible by the dyer’s art, took a little more time, their mouths moving constantly, either to chew the cold beef or to chew on juicy pieces of gossip.
Celeste stood slightly apart, not knowing quite what to do next. She did not feel confident enough in her grasp of the English language to sally forth among the ladies and join in their talk. And none of them made a move toward her, though every so often one stately matron would look up and smile at her.
Gaston pushed his way through a pack of quarreling hounds. “Zut alors! For a miser, the master of Snape puts on a good show.” He flashed Celeste a wide grin. “The day is a good one for breaking a number of thick heads!”
Celeste smiled up at him with gratitude. In two sentences, he had made her feel much better. “Oui, my good friend. And I suppose you would like to do some of the head-breaking yourself?”
Gaston gestured dismissively. “Blasts and fogs, my lady! I but give way so that there will be some one or two left standing by supper! Puppies! Whelps! What could an Englishman learn that a Frenchman hasn’t already practiced, eh?” He offered her his arm. “But come now—away with you. The heralds have been told to form for the parade, and you must take your place.”
Celeste slipped her hand around his muscle-knotted arm. How strong and reassuring he felt! “Gaston, have you seen Brother Guy?” she asked as he led her down the stairway.
“The priestling?” The old soldier’s lips twitched. “I think he is gone, my lady.”
Celeste pulled him to a stop at the bottom of the steps. Tears pricked at her eyes, though she would not give them her permission to fall.
“How can that be? He did not even say goodbye to me!” She bit her lower lip.
Gaston’s eyes dared to twinkle though he spoke to her in a gruff voice. “Brother Guy is a man of honor. He promised to guide you until your wedding day, and voilà! Today is your wedding day, so—pffft! He is gone—as if he were never here.”
How could Guy have done this to her? Didn’t he know how much he meant to her? She had expected him to bless her in her marriage. She had hoped to hear him finally speak a few words to h
er. Now he had flown away like a freed lark.
“Courage, my lady! Hold your head up high,” Gaston gently admonished her. “The monk is gone, as he should be. But—” his brown eyes twinkled all the more“—who knows what this day will bring?”
The Knight of the Loyal Heart? Yes, she hoped he would come, and yet... Celeste swallowed back an enormous lump. She realized now, with stunning finality, that the greatest knight she would ever know was the one who wore a plain brown robe of wool tied at the waist with a frayed rope and only sandals to cover his poor feet in the snow. She thought of the new robe she had made for him, folded away in the chest in her room, waiting for the gift-giving time on New Year’s Day If she had only known Guy was leaving, she would have given him her present earlier.
“Lady Celeste de Montcalm!” Gaston gave her arm a little shake. “What are you? A crybaby? Do you intend to shame me in front of these knavish peasants? Hold your head up—and remember who you are!”
Celeste blinked away the tears that threatened, then squared her shoulders. How many times had Gaston said those very words when Celeste had been summoned into the presence of her unsmiling father to face retribution for her latest piece of mischief? She flashed him a brave smile, though her heart felt dead within her.
“Allons-y, my good Gaston! Let us march into the fray together.”
His smiled widened. “Très bien, ma petite! This day, I think the English have met their match!”
Despite the cold blustery weather, the meadow filled with every manner of folk enjoying the first of the twelve days of Christmas. Even though she ached with the emptiness of Guy’s absence, Celeste’s spirits could not help but lift at the gladsome sights and sounds around her. After four dark weeks of fasting and penance, the holiday revelry was infectious.
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