Everyone around the palisade and in the stands looked at Celeste. She ran her tongue over her dry lips. She glanced down at Sir Roger’s body, then at his murderer, above it. Finally she returned her gaze to the heart-helmed knight before her.
Celeste cleared her throat, so that all the world could hear her answer. “Oui, I accept this knight if he wins,” she proclaimed. Please win!
The knight extended the tip of his lance to her. Its sharp point glinted wickedly.
“Your favor,” prompted the countess beside her in a whisper.
From her inner sleeve, Celeste withdrew the scrap of blue silk and attached it to the lance tip. With it went her silent prayer. The knight bowed again as he withdrew the lance.
“Merci, my lady,” the first squire responded in French. “As you see, I have kept my promise. We have met again on Saint Stephen’s Day, though not under the conditions my lord expected. For the death of Sir Roger Ormond, we are sorry.”
Celeste could not trust herself to speak, lest she disgrace herself by bursting into tears. Instead, she nodded. The three horsemen saluted her, then wheeled their mounts to the far end of the ring. As Celeste watched them, she recognized the second squire’s horse. Black Devil! Mon Dieu! Could that be Gaston hiding behind the mask of the second squire? She wished she had looked closer at him.
Talbott, his face wet with tears for his slain master, hurried down the steps and directed the solemn removal of Sir Roger’s body. As he passed Walter, the steward spat in the mud at his feet. Walter appeared to be too perturbed to notice the insult. Deighton grabbed him by the arm and hauled him toward his horse, at the near end.
“What weapons?” the king of arms called across the arena.
The challenger remained silent. The spectators turned toward Walter.
“Sharpened lances and swords, and may the devil take the hindmost!” Walter swung himself into the saddle.
“First blood?” intoned the earl, this time looking at the silent knight.
“Agreed!” answered the first squire.
“No!” Walter screamed. “I crave his heart, with or without wings, for my supper!”
“First blood only,” ruled the earl. “Commence at the sound of the trumpet.”
Sweet Jesu, protect my knight, Celeste prayed. Please deliver me from Walter Ormond.
“Walter will try to kill him,” she said aloud to Lady Alicia.
“I know,” the countess answered grimly, never taking her eyes off the mysterious knight. “We must pray that God rides with your champion.”
Walter took up a fresh lance, then snapped his visor shut. At the other end of the arena, the mysterious knight tucked Celeste’s veil inside his gauntlet, then raised his lance to signify his readiness. Walter lifted his lance in the air, and the heralds blew a three-note tattoo. Both horses sprang forward.
Celeste wanted to close her eyes, but didn’t dare. Beside her, Lady Alicia drew in her breath as the two opponents thundered down the course, along the barrier. On the first pass, Walter ducked under the knight’s lance. The crowd hissed and booed at him as he rounded the far turn. On the second pass, the knight aimed his lance lower, almost under his shield.
Celeste’s breath caught in her throat at the moment of impact. The jarring sound shimmered the air in front of her eyes; then it seemed to crack into a spider’s web of pieces. When her vision cleared, she saw that Walter lay on the ground. Deighton and one of the marshals ran up to him. The challenger retired to the far end of the ring and waited.
Standing, the marshal faced the king of arms. “There’s no breath left in him, my lord, and blood springs from his mouth and nose.”
Celeste pulled herself up to a standing position. She gave Lady Alicia a weak smile as the matron joined her. Be a worthy prize, the countess had told her earlier. The cost had been high, and it was one Celeste knew she would never forget. She prayed God that the price had been worth it.
“First blood has been drawn, and justice served by the hand of the Almighty,” the earl intoned as Walter’s body was dragged away. “Sir Knight, you may claim the lady.”
As the Knight of the Loyal Heart rode to the base of the stand, Celeste swallowed hard. All her life she had dreamed of something like this happening to her. Today she had discovered that dreams could turn into nightmares. What would the next few minutes bring?
The squires helped the knight dismount, then held the reins of his magnificent charger as he walked slowly up the stairs. Celeste’s knees quivered as he drew nearer. Oh, la, la! The man was a giant! The golden tips of the wings on his helm scraped the top of the pavilion.
The knight pulled off one gauntlet, then the other. Dropping to one knee before her, he took her left hand in his. The warmth of his skin calmed her skittering nerves. His thumb gently caressed the golden ring on her finger.
Without lifting his visor or removing his helm, he murmured in French, “Sweetest Lissa.”
Celeste gasped at the sound of her pet name. “How did you know that?”
He did not answer her question, but continued to speak through the slit in his visor. His deep voice resonated from within as he spoke. “I have known you in my heart all my life. This day, I have won your hand in honorable combat, though I regret the outcome and will pray for the souls of both father and son. But now the sadness of this day has come to an end, and we should turn to happier thoughts. Heart of my heart, will you give me your heart in return for mine?”
Celeste tried to see into the visor. She wished she could look at his eyes and read his soul. His hand continued to caress hers in an oddly familiar way, suggesting more pleasant, more personal encounters to come. Her heart fluttered in her throat, as if longing to join its mate kneeling before her. Her flesh prickled and burned at the knight’s touch. Blood raced through her like molten wildfire.
“My lady?” he implored.
“Do what your heart tells you,” whispered Lady Alicia behind her.
Celeste lifted her chin. “My lord knight, you have won my body, and you hold my hand. I think you had better take my heart to make the package complete.” Having uttered the boldest words of her life, Celeste drew in her breath and wondered what would happen next.
The knight released her hand, then lifted his helm from his shoulders. When he raised his golden head, he smiled that unearthly, beloved smile at her. His sapphire eyes probed hers with shimmering pools of love.
“Brother Guy!” Celeste gasped, taking an involuntary step backward. She fought to keep the earth and sky from spinning around her head. “This cannot be! It is blasphemy! You are a priest!”
His mouth quirked slightly. “Never that.”
“But you are dedicated to the church! You took your vows. You cannot marry me!” She had to escape this awful situation, but there was no room to run, no place to hide her mortification.
Guy took her hand in his again. “Listen to me, sweetest one. I was only a novice at Saint Hugh’s. I have never taken final vows. Two days ago I received a letter from Father Jocelyn, releasing me from the Franciscans. It seems he knew me better than I knew myself. And I have kept my last vow. You notice I did not speak to you until your wedding day.” Guy kissed her cold fingers, his warm lips stirring her already befuddled senses. Now fully hearing his voice, Celeste found it velvet-edged and strong.
“Celeste, as my mother behind you is my witness, I will make you a new vow. I shall not go again to court. I have done with the sham of courtly life. And I have done with the celibate life of a monk as well. But, sweet mistress mine, I vow I shall never be done with you. I love you. Will you trust me with your love and happiness now?” The blue depths of his eyes promised volumes more.
Her fingers tightened around his. “Oui, Sir Guy Cavendish, minister to lost souls and flying hearts, I give you my love to keep. I fear that is all the dowry I have to offer.”
Guy’s laughter floated up from his throat. “Your dowry is your own sweet self. Your hand in mine is all the riches I need or want.” He kissed each finger i
n turn, paying special honor to the one his ring encircled. Then he stood and swept Celeste off her feet into the enveloping protection of his embrace. The forgotten crowd roared back to life with their deep-throated cheers of approval.
“Shield your eyes, Mother,” Guy warned the countess. “I fear my next behavior may shock you.”
“By my troth, nothing you do shocks me anymore, my son,” she replied calmly.
Dipping his head, Guy sealed his betrothal with the most passionate, loving kiss Celeste had ever experienced. Her world ceased to sway and spin. It stopped moving altogether.
Epilogue
October 1529
Snape Castle, Northumberland
“Voilà, mon cher, I win again!” Celeste laid her cards down on the polished tabletop, then reclined against the high-backed cushioned chair, her hands folded across her bulging abdomen. She regarded her husband, across from her, with eyes shining in violet triumph.
Guy added up the scores on his well-worn slate. By the Book! The sly minx had done it again. By now, after ten months of marriage, he should know better than to think he could ever best his little wife at her favorite card game. In fact, ever since Celeste had learned his manner of play, she had been beating him by wider margins. Running his fingers through his hair, Guy glanced up at her.
“There’s no need to chew your lips so, my sweet.” Leaning across the table, he traced his finger across her lower lip. She kissed it in return. “I will pay my just debts. How much do I owe you now?”
Celeste shrugged one shoulder in an offhand manner. “Crowns and pounds, who knows? Indeed, I have lost count since midsummer.” Her black brows knitted together, as if she recalled something distasteful from her memory.
Puzzled by her expression, which belied the lightness of her words, Guy flopped against the back of his chair. He drained the rest of the wine in his cup. One added benefit of having a French wife was the excellent wine she imported from France—at a ruinous tax—as well as the French chef who worked wizardry in Snape’s refurbished kitchens. Guy saw Celeste press her lips together into a thin, tight line.
Had he displeased her since supper? Since she’d become pregnant, Celeste’s moods swung in a wider arc, if that was possible—usually for the better. The coming babe seemed to have given her an increased energy that she used to transform grim old Snape Castle into a warm and cheerful home for Guy and his growing family.
Growing? Aye, there was the rub. In the past month, Celeste’s middle had ballooned so that he wondered if she harbored twins. Twins, he mused. Mother would like that. Did twins run in the family?
A muted gasp snapped him out of his reverie. Celeste sat straight in her chair, gripping the lion’s-paw arms. Though the light from the blazing fire turned the room into dancing reds and oranges, Celeste’s complexion had taken on a shade like new parchment.
“My love, is there something amiss?” The stewed eels at supper had been a trifle rich.
She held her breath for a moment longer, then relaxed. A ghost of a smile flitted across her lips.
“The babe,” she murmured.
Guy’s heartbeat doubled and pounded against his chest. “Sweet Jesu!” he murmured. “You mean... now?” His mind, usually so clear in a crisis, befuddled itself. He could only stare at her as if she were some mysterious creature come to rest at his hearthside.
Celeste relaxed against her cushions. Her face resumed its normal look—one that hinted of untapped mischief.
“Non, our child will not pop out this next minute. But, I think, you will be a father by the morrow.” She giggled. “Mon Dieu! I can see you are not quite ready for this blessed event. In truth, you look like a landed trout, my love.”
The impact of her words galvanized Guy as a call of the trumpets would have sent him plunging into the lists in an earlier time. He shot out of his chair, knocking it backward with a crash. “In the good Lord’s name, Celeste! Why did you not tell me before this?”
With one impatient hand, Guy swept the table aside, sending wine, cards and cups clattering to the clean-swept floor. Gaston, dozing on the settle by the fire, jerked awake.
“The devil take it!” he thundered, scrambling to his feet. “Are we attacked?”
“The babe!” Guy responded with a strange hoarseness in his throat. “’Tis time.” He knelt by his wife’s side. How could she possibly smile and look so calm at a time like this, when every nerve throbbed in his body and the stewed eels danced a galliard in the pit of his stomach?
“Sacrebleu!” With a colorful oath, Gaston lumbered across the hall, calling for Mistress Conroy, maids, fire, water and wine.
Several hounds took up the cry, adding to the growing commotion. Servants peered through several doorways, then scurried off, only to return moments later, carrying all manner of things and heading for Celeste’s lying-in chamber, above the hall. In the midst of this early-evening chaos, Celeste smiled serenely at her husband. Obviously, the pain had unhinged her mind.
“Why did you not tell me sooner?” Guy asked again, gently placing his hand over her tummy. Her full roundness was tight under his touch.
With playful fingers, Celeste brushed a wayward lock of hair from his eyes. “Because, you great loud bear, I was winning. I couldn’t cry off until we had finished the game.”
Guy could only gape at her. He had heard that birthing sometimes turned women to madness. Dear God! Not his own sweet Celeste! He would offer a thousand masses, light ten thousand candles....
“Such a face!” she chided, stroking his cheek. “Are you going to be ill?”
The food inside him considered the question seriously. “Nay!” He swallowed with difficulty. “Can you put your arms around my neck?”
Celeste leaned over and kissed the tip of his nose. “Oui, as long as you promise not to drop me.”
“Drop you?” As if Guy could possibly do such a thing. Yet, as he gently lifted Celeste from the chair, he discovered a certain weakness in his knees. “Lean your head on my shoulder, my heart, and I will have you in your bed in no time.”
The rest of his consoling murmurs died in his throat as Celeste stiffened in his arms. Head bowed over her, he held her tight against his chest as her pain peaked and then ebbed.
“My lord?” Pip’s large eyes peered through the mat of his perpetually uncombed hair. “What will you have me do?”
“Get my lady mother!” Guy instructed as he strode toward the staircase. “And my father. Send a messenger to Wolf Hall at once.”
Pip spun on his heel. “I’ll go myself!” he replied, running for the stairs that led down to the courtyard. “I’ll be there and back with them afore the moon rises.”
Guy didn’t trust himself to caution the young scamp about temperamental horses and the holes in the road between Snape and his father’s home. The boy knew the way well enough, and Guy’s only thoughts were for the precious burden in his arms.
“Peep need not hurry to get there,” Celeste murmured as Guy carried her up the winding stairs. “They tell me that first babies take a long time coming.”
“I would share your pain.” Guy kicked open the door, narrowly missing Nan, who hurried in front of him, bearing a large basin of warm, scented water in her hands.
Celeste’s answering laughter sounded like bells on a May maiden’s wrist. “Non, my brave knight. I do not think so.”
Guy laid her on the thick feather bed. Was the chamber very hot, or was it him? “I will be with you every moment.” He kissed her fingers, one by one.
Celeste merely rolled her eyes at him before another pain seized her. Guy winced as he watched helplessly. Someone shook him by the shoulders.
“Ye do Her Ladyship not one whit o’ good by being here, my lord.” Mistress Conroy pried his fingers loose from Celeste’s moist hand. “A birthing chamber is no place for a man, Sir Guy. Now be off with ye, and let us get on with our work.”
Stung by the housekeeper’s callousness, Guy wheeled on her, but that good lady merely fixed h
im with a stare that would have frozen a charging bull on the spot. “Take good care of her,” he managed to mumble. His mouth was dry. Wine—he needed a lot of it.
“Aye, to be sure, my lord, as soon as ye’ve gone. I’ll not be having ye swoon on me and clutter up the floor. Now out with ye!” She flapped her apron at him, as if he were a schoolboy caught red-handed with an almond tart.
“Go on, Guy,” Celeste added as Nan helped her out of her furred robe de chambre. “I am in good hands here.”
He leaned over the bed and took her pale face between his hands. How tiny Celeste was! How big his child within her! Too big. He traced each beloved feature with his thumb, trying to memorize every part of her. Sweet angels in heaven! What if he should lose her now? Not that. They had only enjoyed a year together. One scant year of happiness. Pray, let Celeste live, and I will give up...swearing! Aye! And drinking wine, and...
“Hey-ho, Brother Guy!” Celeste caressed his hand with hers. “If you are planning to prostrate yourself on that cold chapel floor all night, I pray you not to do it naked. It will shock the maids, and you’ll catch a chill. It would vex me sore to have you sick at a time when I need you. Come, give me a kiss to remember you, then go away. All shall be well.”
“I shall kiss you forever and a day,” he murmured as his lips closed over hers, drinking in her sweetness. She clung to him for a moment longer, then pulled away as another pain took hold of her.
Feeling like a craven cur, Guy turned and fled the chamber. Gaston greeted him at the bottom of the stairs with a brimming cupful of unwatered wine.
“You look like the devil’s own whoreson,” the old soldier remarked with gruff affection as he pulled Guy toward the hearth, which the pages had piled high with fresh logs. “Sit down, man, before you fall down. This birthing business!” Gaston quaffed his own generous portion of wine. “It’s slower than a teasing virgin and frays a man’s nerves just as badly. Nay—worse!”
By the time the earl and countess of Thornbury arrived, Guy had his head down between his knees, trying to blot out the piercing cries that came from the chamber above.
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