Tori Phillips (10 page)

Grabbing his son by the scruff of his neck, Roger pulled him into the center of the light cast by the four candles. When he saw the profusion of open sores dotting Walter’s chest and disappearing below the drawstrings of his trunk hose, Roger nearly gagged. He pulled Walter’s head closer to the flames. His stomach turned sour at the sight of the bald patches shining through Walter’s close-cropped hair. A red mist rose up before Roger’s eyes, and a deep ringing filled his ears.

“You pernicious piece of a dungheap!” Roger followed up these words by slamming Walter once more against the coarse stone wall.

“What mean you?” Walter gasped, attempting to pry Roger’s finger’s from around his throat.

Roger suddenly released his son, who staggered to the stool and flung himself down upon it. The sting of scalding tears pricked at the older man’s eyelids, before he dashed them away. “How long have you had the pox?’

Walter picked up his cloak and drew it around his shivering shoulders.

Roger drew back one thick-booted foot and kicked the stool out from under his son. The wood splintered as Walter fell to the stone floor. “Where did you collect this souvenir of pleasure?” Roger growled. “At court? In the stews of London? Under a hayrack?”

Hugging the cloak, Walter scrambled away from the stamping feet.

“Answer me!” Roger roared. A vein at his right temple began to throb. By nightfall, he knew, he could expect another one of his vicious headaches. He ignored the warning. “When did you know you carried this... this filth?”

“’Tis but a rash.” Pulling himself to a standing position, Walter stared his father in the eye. “I have been scratching overmuch. ’Tis nothing but lice.”

A small part of Roger’s mind applauded his son’s impudence, though the fury of hellfire still burned through him. “Lice? Aye, that and more, from between a drab’s legs! Mince no words with me, hedgepig! I’ve seen enough of the world to know the pox. Have you sought treatment?”

Walter paused before answering, surprised at the turn of questioning. “A physician in York gave me mercury, though I think he sought to kill me, not to cure me.”

Roger turned toward the fire and stared into the glowing embers. “Too bad ’twas young Edward who died. ’Twould have been better if it had been you,” he said very softly, not caring whether Walter heard him or not. All his hopes and ambitions for the Ormonds had disappeared like the feeble smoke curling up the chimney.

“You
are
mad!” Walter gasped behind him.

Roger whirled. “Nay!” he growled. “Not yet, but by all that is in heaven and hell, I may become so!”

Walter jutted out his chin. “Then do so, dearest Papa, so that I may come into my birthright all the sooner.” He snatched up his hat from the floor. “It seems we are stuck with each other—you and I—like two flies in a web.” He fluffed the white feather pinned to the headband. “Like it or not, I am your heir, and I will be served, even with the pox. I am all you have.” With a sneer, he set the cap on his balding head at a jaunty angle.

Watching him, Roger shuddered at the grotesque sight. Like a flash of summer lightning on the moors, a sudden idea leapt into his mind.

“Not quite, my son.” The more he considered this new possibility, the more certain Roger became. God had not totally abandoned him.

Walter’s hand dropped from the latch. Slowly he faced his father. “What mean you? Have you some bastard hidden away? No court in the land will honor a bastard’s claim. Not even our good King Henry can manage that, or he would have proclaimed the young duke of Richmond as his heir long before this.”

Roger shook his head. “No bastard, but a wife. I shall marry the wench that comes here soon, and upon her I shall get another son—a healthy son. Mayhap two boys, God willing.” He smiled at the prospect. He was not that old, and perchance his third attempt at marriage might prove the charm.

A dark red flush stained Walter’s pallor. His features, once so handsome, contorted into a mask of mottled anger. “Bastard!” he screamed at his father. “You are the only bastard in this house!”

Now that he had made up his mind, Roger found Walter’s anger amusing. He perched on the edge of his counting table and chuckled. “Then stand up for bastards, say I.”

“The French girl is mine. You signed the agreement years ago.”

“’Tis true. I do recall putting my name to the paper. Mark you, ’twas
my
name I signed.”

Walter’s face drew in like a pig’s, all snout and small eyes. Roger laughed at the sight, which angered Walter even more. “But you signed for me!” the younger man sputtered. “I am to wed, not you. You are past your prime, old man.”

“And you’ll not live long enough to enjoy yours.” Roger stared at his firstborn with something close to loathing. Once he would have given his very life for his son, but not for this piece of carrion. “Nay, not so, but I fear you’ll beget no more children on any woman who is still willing to lie with you.” He held up his hand to still the rage he saw hovering on Walter’s thin lips. “Hear me, Walter. I need a son—a healthy son—who will take our family into the next generation. I have labored too long and sacrificed too much.” His hand touched the place where his eye once had been. “I will not dash it all at the feet of a poxy jackanapes who is already on the path to perdition.”

“I’ll not-” Walter began.

“You have spoken truly. You will not do anything. Your time is flying toward the twilight. Enjoy what is left of it. As for me, I shall wed Fauconbourg’s young daughter within the hour of her arrival here.”

Walter yanked open the door, revealing Grapper, who had been kneeling at the keyhole. “I wish you joy in your new marriage, Father.” Walter smiled, with venom lurking in the corners of his lips. “But first, your bride must come. May I point out, she is not here yet?” With that, he strode out, pausing to give Grapper a sharp kick.

“Rot in hell!” Roger bellowed after him.

“In due time,” Walter’s answer echoed back.

A finger of ice traced a furrow down Roger’s spine.

Chapter Eight

C
eleste awoke with a start. For a brief moment, she could not remember where she was. The drawn bed curtains made the darkness around her even thicker. Sitting up against the two pillows, she yawned. An inn, she recalled, in some hilly little town.

She drew her knees up to her chest and wrapped her arms around them. For the first time in her eighteen years, she felt truly alone. Marguerite lay in a comfortable infirmary miles away, while her lively maid, Suzette, was probably back in the Loire valley by now.

Celeste bit her lip to stifle the wave of homesickness. At L’Étoile, she would have been sharing her bed with one of her cousins, each keeping the other warm in body and safe from the unseen fears of the dark. Only last night, she had slipped from her narrow bed in the priory’s guest house and sought out her beloved aunt, who lay a few comfortable steps down the corridor.

Celeste drew back the drapes. The pale light of a half moon shining through her small window lit up the slate gables of the house across the way. She noticed that the neighboring brick chimney pot canted a bit to the left. Idly she wondered if it would fall over sometime during the winter months ahead. For the sake of the people who dwelled within, she hoped not.

Celeste swung her legs over the edge of the bed, then searched with her toes for the pair of soft sheepskin slippers she had positioned before retiring. Sweet Mary! The floor was like ice to the touch. Finding the shoes, she slipped into them, then pulled her tawny silken
robe de chambre
over her shoulders; its brown fur trim brushed comfortingly against her ankles.

Feeling her way with her hands, she located the curtains that separated her alcove from the room beyond. Quietly she pulled them apart. Gaston’s soft snore told her that the old soldier occupied the bed nearest hers. She smiled in the darkness at the sleeping form.
Thank you, Gaston. You are my father’s best gift to me.
She knew she would miss him dreadfully once he left her at Snape Castle and returned to France. She shook her head. Mustn’t think of that now. Weeks would come and go before that final parting.

The moon’s watery beams revealed that the other bed was empty. Apprehension prickled the back of her neck. Had the tall monk abandoned them and returned to his safe little priory? Not that Celeste would blame him in the least. She had sorely tried his patience today. Still—

A muffled sound from the bearthside caught her attention. Creeping closer, Celeste saw Guy stretched out on the hard bricks, his arm pillowing his head, which faced the dying embers. Barely daring to breath, she leaned closer to study him by the silver moonlight.

How very long he was! Did he have a cot especially made for him at the priory? she wondered. And why was he sleeping on the cold floor, without so much as a blanket for warmth? Hearing a freshening wind rattle the wooden shutters, Celeste shivered. Glancing at Guy’s empty bed, she furrowed her brows. There was no need for him to get chilled, when there were several blankets nearby. Perhaps he had fallen asleep while praying.

Moving slowly, lest she disturb the sleepers, Celeste tiptoed over to the empty bed, grabbed two blankets and a pillow, then returned to his side. She paused before laying one of the blankets over his bare feet.

How cold his toes looked! Did monks wear only sandals, even when the snows came? She shivered again at the thought. Fah! Certainly God did not require his servants to catch their death of cold. Celeste wrinkled her nose. Brother Guy must stay healthy until they reached Snape Castle, since he was the only one who claimed to know where this mysterious place lay. She did not think the good Lord would mind if she wrapped up Guy’s feet for the night. In fact, it would be an act of Christian charity to do so.

Gently she lifted his ankles, slipped the blanket under them, then set them down again. She had half a mind to run her finger along one of his insteps to see what would happen, but the voice of prudence cautioned her against the idea. She already knew well enough that Brother Guy would not find her trick amusing. Besides, the poor man needed his rest. But he did have such a lovely high arch!

Sighing softly, she laid the rest of the blanket over him, up to his waist. Taking the second blanket, she placed it over the first, draping it from his knees to his neck. She would have liked to tuck the ends around him, to keep out the drafts that whispered under the hem of her night shift, but she feared that her touch would waken him.

The pillow posed another problem. How could she slip it under his head without disturbing him? Was Brother Guy a sound sleeper? And what was he like when he first awakened? Celeste’s father was always a cranky bear in the mornings, until after he had broken his fast. Gaston was the same, only he roared instead of muttered. Perhaps all men were difficult in the mornings. Considering Brother Guy’s great size, he would probably act like a fire-breathing dragon.

The embers cast a reddish glow on his crown of golden hair. Celeste wet her lips as she gazed at its silken fineness. Was it as soft as it looked? Would he mind if she touched it?
Imbécile!
she chided herself. Of course he would mind—if he knew. But asleep? Ah, that was another thing altogether,
n’est-ce pas
?

Holding her breath, she reached out and stroked an errant curl that lay invitingly across the neck of his robe.
Mon Dieu!
It was like the down of a new chick. Celeste twined the curl through her fingers. She knew she didn’t have much experience in these matters, but shouldn’t a man’s hair be rough? Thoughtfully she combed her fingers through several more curls, being careful to avoid touching the bare patch of his tonsure. The temptation to nuzzle her cheek against the softness of his hair almost overwhelmed her.

Ma foi!
Why was she sitting on a cold floor in the middle of the night playing with a strange man’s hair—and he a man of God, no less? Her mother and father would be deeply shamed by her brazen behavior, if they knew. She could almost feel the sting of the birch twigs on her bare backside.
And Marguerite! She would skin me alive, using only her tongue!

Celeste pulled her fingers away from Guy’s locks as if they were a nest of garden snakes. Better to put the pillow next to his head and be done with it. Perhaps he’d sense it was there and roll onto it. Standing, Celeste looked down at him again. At least now Brother Guy looked a little more comfortable. She cocked her head. What did his face look like when he slept? Surely he could not maintain that stern mien all the time. One little peek wouldn’t hurt—just to satisfy her curiosity. Raising herself up on her toes, Celeste leaned far out over his body, twisting to get a glimpse of his expression.

Brilliant, unblinking sapphire eyes met her gaze, and one thick brow slowly rose.

With a small shriek of surprise, Celeste lost her precarious balance and toppled over Guy, toward the fireplace. His hands caught her before her head hit the hearthstone, and his body cushioned the impact of her fall.

A rasp of drawn steel rang out in the darkness. “By the cock of the devil, unhand her, you cur!” Gaston bellowed as he leapt from the bed. The moonlight glimmered on the naked blade of his sword.

Guy’s hands tightened around Celeste’s arms for a moment as he stared deeply into her eyes. Then, rolling over, he pushed her away from him.

Celeste caught her breath at the intensity of the blue flame that had blazed momentarily in his eyes. Only Gaston’s string of thunderous oaths shook her from the spell of his gaze. “Peace, Gaston!” She held out her hand to the angry sergeant. “I pray you, all is well. Good Brother Guy did no wrong.”

“I’ll cleave him in half!” Gaston bristled, his bare legs dancing in a frenzy as he circled the couple on the floor. “Move away, my lady, or you’ll get blood on your clothes.”

In one swift move, Guy rose, his blankets falling away from him like brown leaves off an elm tree in autumn. Before Gaston and Celeste could gather their wits, Guy chopped his hands down across the old soldier’s wrist. The sword clanged against the hearthstone. Cursing in pain, Gaston cradled his injured arm.