Читать книгу Silent Knight - Tori Phillips - Страница 9

Chapter Two

“’T is not often we have the opportunity to entertain such charming company as yourself, Lady Celeste.” Father Jocelyn Pollock, prior of Saint Hugh’s, wiped his fingers free of chicken grease on his rough linen napkin. Nor was it often that he dined so richly, and he wondered if his digestion would pay the price for this indulgence in the middle of the night. Nevertheless, he enjoyed the opportunity to exercise his French. Brother Giles, acting as servitor, poured more wine into a simple pottery cup, which he offered to the lady.

“Merci, ” she murmured, her long, dark lashes fluttering like a butterfly on a midsummer’s day.

Father Jocelyn noted how the lady’s eyes sparkled in the candlelight, and he made a mental note to keep his novices and younger monks out of her sight. On second thought, he should keep most of his charges within the confines of the cloister, lest they be beguiled by this extraordinary creature. Already, in the space of an hour at supper, Lady Celeste had transformed solemn Brother Giles into a blushing, stammering schoolboy. Praise be to the entire heavenly host that the young woman had no idea of the power of her charms. Father Jocelyn sighed into his napkin. She would learn soon enough.

“’Tis most unfortunate that your aunt has suffered a fractured hip, as well as a broken leg,” Father Jocelyn continued. His unexpected guests presented him with a number of problems, the least of which was Lady Marguerite’s injuries.

“But she will recover, oui?” Placing her eating knife across her trencher, Lady Celeste raised her eyes in supplication.

The prior nodded. “Aye, my lady. She will be made whole again under the care of our gifted Brother Cuthbert.” Frowning slightly, he swirled the dregs of the wine in his cup. “However, ’tis out of the question for her to travel anywhere before Christmastide. At which time, it would be advisable for her to return to your home in France, where the weather is kinder to knitting bones.”

For a moment, Lady Celeste did not speak. Then she sighed. “I suspected as much, good Father. Indeed, I am hardly surprised. ’Tis merely one more misadventure we have suffered since... we left L’Étoile.”

Father Jocelyn crumbled the crust of his trencher between his thumb and forefinger. “There have been other accidents, my child?”

“Accidents?” Her dark brows arched to a point. Her lips curled into a half smile. “This entire journey has been one long accident, Father.”

The prior snapped his fingers to attract the attention of Brother Giles, who looked as if he had been kicked in the head by Daisy, the monastery’s infamous donkey. Coloring, the brother began to clear the board. Yes, Father Jocelyn decided, watching Brother Giles trip over the hem of his robe, he definitely must send the Lady Celeste on her way as soon as possible.

The prior cleared his throat. “Traveling is always difficult. I am surprised to find you accompanied by so few retainers, and so late in the year.”

The lady dabbed the corners of her lips with her napkin before answering. “It was not so in the beginning. We left my home in late August. My father provided me with my aunt as chaperon. I also had good Gaston, a dozen men-at-arms, my maid, Suzette...” Here, she faltered and bowed her head for a moment. Father Jocelyn had the distinct impression that the lady’s tale was not a pleasant one.

“There were also two wagons, and the drivers,” she continued in a soft throaty voice.

Father Jocelyn cocked one eyebrow. “Two wagons? Pray, go on, my lady.”

“All went well—in France.”

“Ah, ’twas the crossing of the Channel?” The prior had done that once himself, when he visited Italy in his youth. He had vowed if God would let him live through the experience, he would never leave England again.

“Oui!” Her eyes flashed. “We were all sick, even the poor horses. In truth, good Father, I prayed for death over and over as our ship pitched and dived among the waves. Is that not wicked of me?”

Father Jocelyn shook his head. “Understandable, given the circumstances.”

“It was over a week before we landed safely in a place called Bristol. I must confess that I fell to my knees and kissed the ground.”

“Also understandable.” Father Jocelyn had done the same thing upon his return to England.

“Pah! Had I known what was in store for us here, I would have turned right around and ordered that miserable boat back to France!”

Brother Giles tittered. The prior flashed him a scorching look. Father Jocelyn wished he could send the younger man back to the kitchen; however, the lady’s reputation, as well as the prior’s, required that a third party be present at all times. Who would have expected that sober-minded Giles would be reduced to a quivering mass of suet pudding by a smoky voice and a pair of violet eyes?

“Once our stomachs returned to their rightful places, we set out, going north toward Chester, I believe. I fear I am not acquainted with the English countryside.”

“No one would expect you to be,” interjected Brother Giles with feeling. Father Jocelyn glared at him.

“Oui! You have grasped the very kernel of the truth. Our party wandered over hill and dale, because it amused the common folk to misguide us—even when we paid them for their directions. I am sure we looked a fool’s progress as we turned in circles at their whim. Indeed, at one point we discovered we were headed in the opposite direction, when we found a milepost pointing back toward Bristol!”

“Surely there must have been some honest folk you met on your way?”

Lady Celeste shrugged her shoulders slightly. “Oui, though it took us nearly a month to find one. When at last we were headed north again, the skies turned against us, and it rained for days on end.”

“I fear our weather is one of the crosses we must bear,” the prior remarked gently.

“It rained so much that all the little brooks became rushing rivers. We lost a wagon while fording one. If it were not for Pierre’s quick thinking, we would have lost the horses, as well. He leapt on the back of the lead mare as she thrashed in the water. At peril of his own life, he cut the traces. Our Pierre is only sixteen, but he is very brave, no?” Her eyes sparkled as she recounted the harrowing incident.

He’s probably suffering the loss of his wits. The prior kept that observation to himself. The girl warmed to her tale, despite its gravity. Father Jocelyn found himself wondering if she secretly relished the adventure. How unsuitable for a young lady of gentle breeding!

“We were able to save some of the furnishings my mother sent with me for my new home, but the wagon? Fah! Firewood! ” She sipped her wine. “Gaston sent the first driver and his team back to Bristol.” She sighed. “They are most likely at home by now.”

Father Jocelyn suspected the young lady wished she was back in L’Étoile, as well. He couldn’t blame her. When he saw a small frown knot itself between her delicate eyebrows, he asked, “There is more?”

Lady Celeste sighed again. “Oui, though I wish there were not. I believe we ate some poorly cooked food in an inn outside of...” She struggled to think of the name. “Outside of Hereford. Many of my men came down with stomach cramps. It was most piteous to hear them moan. At one point, I feared for their lives. My dear little maid, Suzette—she was so very sick. We stayed in that miserable town for almost two weeks. At last, everyone recovered, but they were very weak. Suzette lost so much weight, I could not bear the thought of making her continue the journey. She is only fourteen, Father. When she was well enough, I sent her back to Bristol with three of the men.”

The prior shook his head. The lady sitting opposite him didn’t look much older than her maid, yet she seemed to have been made stronger by the series of setbacks. “And now your aunt. It seems God has sorely tested your mettle, ma petite.”

Her eyes flashed with an inner fire. “You have spoken truly, Father, yet I must go on. My father gave his word that I would wed Walter Ormond, and the word of the chevalier of Fauconbourg is golden. Even if I arrive at Snape Castle in only my shift, I must go on. The honor of my family is at stake.”

The bridegroom’s name jangled a faint bell within Father Jocelyn’s memory. He had heard something about a branch of the Ormond family that was not altogether savory. “Walter Ormond? Would his father be Sir Roger Ormond?”

For the first time that evening, she truly smiled. The effect nearly shattered Brother’s Giles’s fragile composure. “Oui, the very same!” She clapped her hands with delight. “Do you know him, good Father?”

The prior wet his lips before answering. He had half a mind to tell her to flee back to France immediately, but he suspected she would face death before disgracing the family name. “The Ormonds live on the northern outskirts of civilization. I fear they are a rough and uncultured lot. Tell me, my child. How is it such a well-bred lady as yourself happened to become betrothed to the heir of such a far-flung estate?”

Lady Celeste swallowed at his words, though her gaze never wavered. “My father came to know Sir Roger and his son eight years ago, when your King Henry met with our king, Francois, at a beautiful city of tents outside of Calais, which people now call the Field of Cloth of Gold.” Her violet eyes gleamed as she recalled that near-legendary event.

“My father was a member of Francois’s court, and he entertained Sir Roger often during that fortnight. Oh, Father Jocelyn! I was there for a few days with my mother and sisters. It was truly the most magnificent sight!”

The old prior nodded. He had heard of the sumptuous feasts, the splendid tournaments and the brilliance of the two glittering courts, each vain monarch trying to outshine the other. He could well imagine how such a magnificent sight would have impressed the imagination of a young girl. “How many sisters have you, ma petite?”

“I have the honor of being the fifth and youngest daughter of Roland de Montcalm.” Her chin tilted up a notch.

“Five daughters! And brothers?”

“Only one survived. Philippe is the baby of the family.” She looked wistful as she spoke of her little brother. “We spoil him terribly.”

“Are your sisters married?” Father Jocelyn wondered if they were as striking as the lady opposite him.

“Oui, that is why my father allowed all of us to come to the Field of Cloth of Gold—to find good husbands. I am the last—and the only one who was betrothed to an Englishman.” She sighed softly, then flushed and glanced at the prior. “Pardon my manners, Father. It is not that I do not like the English, it’s just...” She groped for the right words.

“It’s just that you would have rather stayed in France, near your family?” he suggested in a gentle voice.

Lady Celeste rewarded him with a smile that lit up the small, Spartan guest room. Brother Giles hiccuped with suppressed pleasure.

“You are very wise, Father, to know my mind.” She cocked her head to one side. “Perhaps you can tell me what I am to do now that my aunt is sore injured and my only wagon is broken. I am most needful of good counsel. I must go on. I cannot return to L’Étoile. It would disgrace my father’s name, and...and...” She bit her lip.

“Yes, ma petite?” Father Jocelyn resisted the urge to lay his hand on her bowed head.

“It is my only offer of marriage, Father,” she confessed in a near whisper. “After settling dowries on my four older sisters, there was very little left for me. Sir Roger is kind enough to accept me when I bring his son so little to the marriage settlement.” She gave her slim shoulders a shake, then stared into the candle’s flame. “But I will bring him my honor, my virtue, and... and I will try to love him, as well.”

“Then Walter Ormond will be a rich man indeed,” murmured the prior, though a wing tip of apprehension brushed against his soul.

The morning air smelled fresh and clean when Guy emerged from the darkness of the chapel, where he had spent a cold, dank night lying facedown on the flagstones. The sun’s rays fell with welcome warmth on his chilled skin and robe, still damp from the rain of the day before. Guy moved stiffly across the cloister toward a low gate. A day spent tending the monastery’s herb garden would be good for both his sore body and his troubled mind. He wished Father Jocelyn had let him wear a hair shirt while he prayed on the chapel floor. Its rough discomfort might have banished the visions of deep violet eyes and flowing black hair that had danced through Guy’s meditations during his nocturnal penance. He hoped the troubling lady was gone by now—on her way to wherever it was. Anywhere but here at Saint Hugh’s.

Silver, rippling laughter brought Guy to an abrupt halt. His heart skipped its normal rhythm and strained against the confines of his chest. No member of Saint Hugh’s Priory laughed with such crystal sweetness, not even the youngest choirboy. Stepping back into the shade of a pillared archway, Guy peered over Brother Timothy’s prized rosebushes. Seated on a stone bench not ten feet away, the temptress who had plagued his prayers now toyed with Jeremiah, the kitchen’s ill-tempered cat.

“La, puss-puss,” the lady crooned, stroking the sensitive whiskers of the black-and-white mouser with a long piece of straw. “What a fine, handsome fellow you arel”

The cat’s docile behavior surprised Guy. He sucked in his breath when he saw the lady lean over and pick up the overfed creature. Guy tensed, expecting Jeremiah to lash out with his claws bared.

“Truly, you would make an admirable knight, if cats could wear armor,” she continued, settling him on her lap. “You are such an elegant puss-puss,” she continued in admiring tones, her fingers moving through Jeremiah’s thick fur in long, even strokes.

Guy shivered as he watched her graceful hands. Should he warn her of the cat’s irascible nature? Yet that would mean he would have to speak to her again, to look into those beguiling eyes once more. The short encounter of yesterday had been enough to send his thin defenses crashing down.

Perhaps it would be best for the sake of Guy’s troubled soul if the cat did scratch the girl. Then she would go away, or at least leave the cloister rose garden. Only a little scratch would do — the merest swipe. Not enough to draw blood, nor to injure her creamy skin. Just a suggestion of a scratch. Perhaps only the sight of a half-open talon. Guy bit back his alarm as the lady, heedless of the risk she took, swung Jeremiah over her shoulder and draped him around her neck like a fur collar.

“See,mon chat?” The lady picked up a small book, bound in dark blue leather, that had been lying on the bench beside her. “You would look most magnificent, I think, if you were dressed as the Knight of the Loyal Heart.” Absently, she rubbed Jeremiah behind his ears. “See this picture? You would wear the helm of the winged heart most nobly, oui?”

Closing his eyes, the cat nudged his head against the palm of her hand. Guy could almost hear the creature purring. Perhaps Jeremiah was befuddled by her French. Maybe he had never been this close to a woman before. In any event, he wasn’t acting normally. In fact, the cat looked as if he had found paradise within the dark tresses that peeped from under the lady’s sheer veil. Guy trembled with indignation, though he could not tear his gaze away from the simple domestic scene in front of him. That woman—nay, that chit of a girl—was the devil’s handmaiden, brought here to seduce the souls of this community of celibates. She even wove her witchcraft on the bellicose Jeremiah!

“La, dearest cat, you would save the poor damsel, Sweet Grace, from the evil power of the awful sorceress Denial, wouldn’t you?” The lady rubbed her cheek against the cat’s fur, as she turned to another page in her book and held it up for Jeremiah’s inspection. Even at a distance, Guy could see the exquisite detail of the illustration, rendered in jewel colors and bright gilding.

A book of romance and troubadour songs. Strange devotions for a well-bred young girl to read, especially within the walls of a holy monastery. Guy knew he should turn away in disgust. Every moment that he lingered in the shadows of the archway only heightened the danger to his vows.

Her hands fluttered over the cat like two butterflies in the sun. A sudden breeze threatened to lift the velvet French coif from her head. Guy caught himself wishing it would. He swore under his breath, then, aghast at what he had just said, whispered a hurried prayer after his oath.

By the Holy Grail, what was happening to him? Who was this creature but yet another one of those empty-headed females whom he sought to escape once and for all time behind these gray stone walls? He had had enough of women in all shapes, sizes, social orders and states of undress in the past twelve years to convince himself that not one of them was worth a groat.

Ever since Anne Boleyn had caught the king’s roving eye, Great Harry’s lust had doomed to extinction whatever shreds of honor and virtue still lingered in the corners of Westminster Palace. Guy counted himself well out of it. Now, when he least expected it, temptation played in the October sunshine. And his body—not to mention his very soul—responded like a starving man at a feast. Angrily he stalked toward the herb garden, taking care that he made no noise to attract the attention of those fascinating violet eyes.

Not even the bewitched Jeremiah looked up.

“What?” Guy sputtered, breaking into a sweat, though the evening air was cool. He cast a sidelong glance at Brother Cuthbert, who stood behind the prior’s chair. No trace of humor glinted in the older man’s gray eyes. Guy considered throwing himself to his knees, but thought the gesture might seem too dramatic within the confines of the prior’s office. “I pray you, Father, do not lay this burden on me!”

Father Jocelyn barely hid his smile. “How now? A burden? I should think you would welcome a chance to get out and enjoy the countryside. Mother Nature has trimmed herself in her best finery before cruel winter’s onslaught. ’Twould only be for a few weeks.”

“But why me?” Guy raked his fingers through the fringes of his thick blond hair. “I am only a novice. Perhaps it would be better for someone who has already taken his vows to go—someone who has been here a long time and would like a short holiday.” He glanced over to Brother Cuthbert.

Father Jocelyn coughed behind his hand. “Perhaps, but I think you are the best choice, Brother Guy. You understand French, and you know the lay of the land well. Northumberland is your home, is it not?”

Guy swallowed with difficulty. “Aye, Father, but...”

The prior held up his hand for silence. Guy bowed his head, though he could feel his heart thumping uncomfortably under his robe.

“Lady Celeste has already experienced a most difficult journey. In faith, I am tempted to return her to her home, but the lady won’t hear of it.”

Guy looked up, raising one brow in question. Obviously, the girl hadn’t a sensible bone in her body.

“She tells me that her family’s honor demands that she go on, come rack or ruin—which I fear may happen at the rate she is proceeding.”

“But, Father...”

The prior continued as if he hadn’t heard Guy’s disrespectful interruption. “Now that her aunt must stay behind, Lady Celeste needs some sort of chaperon, and that, Brother Guy, you will provide. No one will think it amiss if they see her traveling in the company of a priest.”

“Priest!” Guy erupted. He had never intended to take holy orders. He wasn’t worthy—not after the hell-bent life he had led. “Father, I am the furthest thing from the priesthood.”

Father Jocelyn gently shook his head in silent reproof. “It matters not what you truly are, so long as you are what you seem to be. To the world you are a man of God, and therefore above reproach.”

“And the lady—?” Guy tried not to think of her voice, like exotic incense, and her hair, the color of silken midnight.

“Lady Celeste will be none the wiser.” The prior’s lips curled at the corners. “Your virtue will be safe with her.”

Safe? Those liquid violet eyes and those lush lips, like satin rosebuds, promised scant safety to any mortal man. The prior had no idea what he was asking. Guy dropped to his knees. “Do not make me bear this cross, Father.” Hearing his own words, Guy realized he sounded a little overblown, but perhaps the prior would be moved by his biblical plea.

Father Jocelyn stood and slid his hands into the wide folds of his sleeves. “When you joined our community six months ago, Brother Guy, you promised obedience in all things.”

“Aye, Father.” Guy bowed his head and shut his eyes, trying to blot out what he knew was coming.

“Now I am commanding you to escort the Lady Celeste de Montcalm and her men safety to Sir Roger Ormond of Snape Castle, near Morpeth, in Northumberland. There she will wed Sir Roger’s son, Walter. After the ceremony, you will return here. Do I make myself clear in this matter, Brother Guy?”

“You do, Father.” Guy tried to control the tremor that shivered down his spine. Walter Ormond of Snape? Sweet Jesu! Nay! ’Twould be flinging a gentle dove into the talons of a hawk.

“Excellent!” Father Jocelyn nodded in satisfaction. Brother Cuthbert merely sucked in his breath.

Guy wet his lips. “But, Father, I fear for my soul to travel in the company of such a...such a lady as that.” He bit back the urge to bellow at his superior.

The prior chuckled. “I admit she is a most beauteous lady, Brother Guy. I am glad to see you have not lost your keen perception. As to your soul, I will lay on you one further commandment.” He paused as he glanced at Brother Cuthbert.

Guy waited tensely. The uneven flagstones bit deeper into his knees. He again licked his dry lips. He had a feeling he wasn’t going to like whatever the prior had in mind.

“At vespers tonight, you will make a solemn vow of silence. Henceforth, you will not speak, nor utter a sound, until Lady Celeste’s wedding day,” Father Jocelyn pronounced over him. A note of humor softened the tone of his voice.

Guy lifted his chin with firm resolve. “Aye, I will, Father Jocelyn.” If he couldn’t speak to her, there was a chance he could evade her wiles and snares. “And tonight, for my penance—”

“What penance do you think you need now, my son?” A warm twinkle danced in the prior’s eyes. “You were up all last night at prayer. You need your rest tonight, for you will depart with the lady at first light. Her wagon is repaired, and time is of the essence. The good weather will not hold for long.”

“Perhaps I could wear a hair shirt?” Guy suggested. Pain. He needed pain to keep his thoughts from wandering down the path of sweet perdition.

“That is hardly necessary, Brother Guy. I think riding astride Daisy for several weeks will be penance enough for even the worst of sins.” Before Guy could make a further suggestion, Father Jocelyn traced the sign of the cross over him. “Go in peace, my son.”

Guy rose, bowed to both the prior and his assistant, then let himself out the door. A myriad of thoughts tumbled through him as he fled for the silence of the chapel. By the rood! How was he going to survive the next month? Though the words of his prayers poured from his lips, he saw in his mind the beguiling beauty of Lady Celeste de Montcalm—and the well-remembered sneer of Walter Ormond.

From the side door of the chapel, the two Franciscans watched their newest novice wrestle with himself.

“Do you truly think it wise to send young Guy off with the lady?” Cuthbert murmured in an undertone.

Father Jocelyn nodded slowly, his eyes never leaving the kneeling form praying before the sanctuary. “Aye, Brother, I do. ’Tis for the best.”

Brother Cuthbert raised one eyebrow so high, it nearly lost itself in the mouse-gray fringe encircling his head. “How so?”

The prior tapped his finger against his nose. “Let us say that I have my suspicions concerning the sincerity of young Cavendish’s vocation.”

“But surely the lad is sincere. In the garden, in the chapel—he is constantly on his knees!” Cuthbert blustered in a whisper.

“Peace, good Brother. Time will tell.” The prior smiled at his old friend. They had entered the monastery together as boys, nearly thirty-five years ago. “When you and I took our final vows, we did so with great joy—running to our Lord. I suspect Brother Guy is running away from himself.”