Tori Phillips (32 page)

“Well, little brother, I’ll give you your due. You have chosen wisely this time,” Brandon Cavendish said as he pulled off his heavy cape and tossed it on a low stool. Moving around the central pole of his pavilion, he crossed to the folding table where he poured two large cups of wine. “’Sdeath! ’Tis cold as a witch’s teat out there!” He took a deep drink.

Guy sat up straighter on the edge of his brother’s cot.
You spoke with her
? he wrote on his slate.

Brandon warmed his hands over a low brass brazier filled with glowing coals. “Aye, and she has a cat’s purr in her voice.”

Guy nodded, with a slow satisfied smile on his lips.
You told her you were from the Knight of the Loyal Heart?
he wrote.

Brandon laughed as he poured himself more wine. “Aye, and she rose to it like a trout on a summer’s day.”

Guy narrowed his eyes. His chalk flew over the slate.
You didn’t engage her in wanton speech? You often speak with a silver tongue to women.

Brandon held up his hands in mock surrender. “The devil can have me if I did! Nay, angel-face, I spoke to her only of your love for her. And you should have seen the look in her eye when I mentioned the Knight of the Loyal Heart!” Brandon laughed so that his wine slopped over the rim of his cup.

Guy held his impatience in check. He knew that his little masque amused Brandon no end, but he wished his brother would cease to call him “angel-face.” In their youth, Guy had often bloodied his brother’s nose for it.
Will she delay the wedding?
He underlined the words.

Brandon took another drink before answering. “Aye, I think she will try. It remains to be seen what Sir Roger will say.”

Guy raised one eyebrow with amused contempt, then wrote,
The walls of this tent will quiver with his wind.

Grinning, Brandon stretched out his legs. “Good for him, so long as he does not blow out my fire in the bargain. ’Tis a right cold time of year to be camping. Pour us another cup, Guy.”

Guy returned his brother’s grin.
Advent,
he wrote.
You are supposed to be fasting.

Brandon shrugged as he wagged the cup under Guy’s nose. “Pish, posh! ’Tis for medicinal reasons, since there is no wench around to warm my blood.”

Guy shook his head good-naturedly as he complied with Brandon’s request. As he handed the cup back to Brandon, his brother tapped Guy’s slate.

“Why do you insist on keeping this ridiculous vow of silence?” he asked, a look of mischief dancing in his light blue eyes.

My honor.

“And how long must I endure your gnarling penmanship?”

Until Celeste’s wedding day
. Guy stared at the words he had written. Two weeks more. Would she find his voice pleasing?

Brandon grinned. “I pray I do not go blind afore then. By my troth, little brother, I’ve done more reading this fortnight than in the entire past year!”

Guy finished his wine, then stood, his head nearly touching the canvas roof of Brandon’s lavishly appointed pavilion. He winced as he moved. How quickly his muscles had softened! He could barely raise his shield arm after the bruising exercise Gaston had given him today at the quintain.
I must return to the keep, he wrote. My absences are noticed.
He massaged his aching shoulder as Brandon squinted at the slate.

“By a pair of the most purple eyes I have ever seen, perchance?” Brandon stretched himself out on the cot that Guy had just vacated.

Hie you to a bog, brother
! The chalk snapped in two. Guy lifted the tent flap and shivered anew in the penetrating wind.

“After you!” Brandon retorted with a broad smile as he handed the slate back to Guy. “And close the flap quickly, ’ere I freeze and can no longer play your squire!”

Guy hugged himself for warmth as he crossed the field to the postern gate, where faithful Pip waited to let him in. The snow covered his feet at each step.

Forgive my weakness, Lord, but I am looking forward to wearing boots again.

The next morning, Celeste met Sir Roger in the hall as he was pulling on his thick leather gauntlets.

“A word, my lord, I pray you?” She smiled as she rose from her simple curtsy, though a hard knot had formed itself in her throat.

“Good morrow, sweetheart!” Sir Roger boomed in French, an answering smile wreathing his thick lips. “You look well this day.”

Celeste tensed.
“Merci,
my lord, as do you.” Quickly! She must broach the subject before she completely lost her nerve. “I have a boon to ask of you.”

Sir Roger looked pleased. “Say on!” He waved one gauntlet in the air. His squire, Grapper, withdrew a few paces.

“I have been thinking of our wedding day, my lord,” she began.

“As I have.” He stepped closer to her. She noticed that drippings from yesterday’s dinner still stuck to the gray velvet of his short coat. She itched to wrinkle her nose, but restrained her natural inclination. “And your boon?” he asked.

Celeste moistened her lips. Lying did not come easily to her. She thanked her lucky star that Gaston was not within earshot. “Merely this—it is the custom of my family to be wed at night, my lord.”

His thick brows furrowed. “How now?” he bellowed.

She lifted her shoulders in a little shrug. “It is very silly, I know, but all my sisters were married by candlelight. It is very romantic, my lord,
n’est-ce pas
?” She cocked her head, smiled as sweetly as she knew how, then fluttered her lashes as her sister Henriette used to do.

Sir Roger barked, “Bolts and shackles, wench! I said on Saint Stephen’s Day, and by my head, ’twill—”

Celeste laid her hand on his arm and felt his muscles harden beneath the sleeve.
“Oui,
” she murmured softly. “Saint Stephen’s Day, at six o’clock—in the evening, my lord. Also, I think it will be better for you.”

Sir Roger paused in his fuming. “How so?”

Celeste stroked his sleeve, much as she would do to a quarrelsome child. “I wish you to do well at the jousting, my lord. Indeed, I am sure every knight who comes is quaking in his greaves that you shall be riding in the lists against them.”

Sir Roger nodded, stroking his mustache. “My skill is well-known.”

“
D’accord,
” she agreed, swallowing down her flutters of anxiety. “And I would be much grieved if you were injured on our wedding day—before the evening.” She blushed as she thought of what the evening’s activities were to be. Sweet Saint Anne! How could she do
that
with him? She pushed the disgusting thought away.

Sir Roger slipped his arm around her waist and drew her hard against him. “’Tis a consummation that I devoutly wish for, sweetheart.” His breath reeked of stale beer and old onions.

Quelling her urge to gag, Celeste hurried on. “If you ... that is, we... were married before the tournament, I fear you would be distracted, my lord, and not at your best.”

“I am always at my best!” he roared. Her ears rang.

“
Oui,
but I fear that you may be injured because your mind is not fastened to the point of your lance, but on other... points.”

Her skin burned with shame.

He waggled his bushy gray brows at her, then roared with laughter. “They do say that a wise husband will not disdain to hear his wife’s advice, and follow it, if it be good.”

Celeste adjusted her coif and veil, which his rough handling had knocked askew. “Then you agree? We will be married after the tournament,
n’est-ce pas?
”

Sir Roger whacked her soundly on the backside. The force of his affectionate blow nearly sent her spinning out of his embrace. “Aye, ’tis agreed, and to seal the bargain, I claim a kiss, for I have not tasted those cherry lips of yours in many a day.”

“Pleasures grow sweeter by delay,” she murmured. The ferocity of his passion frightened her.

“Nay, I would kiss your sweet mouth again and again, so that the mark of my lips would show for a month.” Before Celeste could protest, his mouth engulfed hers; his tongue delved deeply inside, nearly causing her to choke. It seemed an eternity before he released her. “Now, there’s a wench!” he shouted in English to everyone in earshot as he thundered down the staircase to the courtyard.

Her lips raw from the encounter, Celeste sank down on the nearest bench. Her skirts of burgundy velvet shielded her trembling knees.
Mon Dieu!
How was she ever going to survive this fearful wedding night? Aunt Marguerite’s vivid description flashed across her memory.

Was last night’s visitation a mere figment of her fantasy and not a real man? No matter now. The die was cast. If nothing else, she had just bought herself twelve more hours of freedom. She lightly touched her bruised lips, and shuddered at the memory of the encounter.

That kiss was as comfortless as frozen water to a starved snake. O Knight of the Loyal Heart, if you be real, come save me.

Chapter Twenty-Six

W
hen Celeste opened her prayer book the next morning, a small paper fluttered to the floor. Curious, she picked it up and turned it over. By the dim light of the altar candles, she saw the device of a heart with wings sprouting on either side. It had been hastily drawn with a frayed quill, but the scrap buoyed her spirits. The Knight of the Loyal Heart had sent her a sign—but what cunning had gotten it into her prayer book?

The next evening, as Celeste shuffled her playing cards to while away the long hours between vespers and bedtime with a game of patience, another paper fell onto her table. It, too, bore the winged heart of the fascinating and mysterious knight. Over the remainder of the week, other hearts appeared in the most unexpected places: in her sewing basket, under her trencher at dinner, in her reticule, and even under her pillow. She carefully preserved each of them between the pages of her Book of Love, as a maid might press a may-flower in a heavy volume. But the question remained. Who had slipped these intriguing billets-doux among her private possessions, and who was the Knight of the Loyal Heart?

Advent came to an end at midnight on Christmas Eve, when the first of the traditional three masses was sung in the castle chapel. Despite the lateness of the hour, the usually dim, cold place of worship radiated warmth and light as the castle’s family, guests and servants crowded in to celebrate with fire and music the birth of the infant Jesus. The familiar Latin songs, the reading of the age-old story and the smell of the incense reminded Celeste of many happy memories of the Christmas season at her home, L’Étoile, Clutching her lighted taper, she tried to banish her homesickness. At her side, Gaston lent her the comfort of his reassuring presence, and when she chanced to glance at him, he gave her a brave smile, as if he understood her feelings.

Celeste had hoped Brother Guy would stand with her, as well, but he lingered in the side aisle, in the darkest part of the nave. He prayed in his usual silence, though for once his head was uncovered. Celeste marveled at how long his bright golden hair had grown since the first time she had seen him. At the end of the mass, he flashed her one of his brilliant smiles before slipping out the side door with several other men swathed in dark cloaks.

Since the day before, knights and their retinues had been arriving from neighboring estates to take part in the tournament and the subsequent wedding celebration of the lord of Snape Castle. Tonight, the chapel had been filled with many of these visitors. Initially Sir Roger had growled at the huge expense of his impending nuptials, but with the colorful arrival of so many distinguished guests, he had discovered that his reputation was considerably enhanced in the eyes of the local nobility by the prospect of good food, kegs of beer, and a chance to crack each other’s heads open on Saint Stephen’s Day.

The second Christmas mass, at dawn, celebrated the arrival of the shepherds at the stable in Bethlehem. Afterward, Mistress Conroy directed the serving men to pass among the milling throng with steaming mugs of hot spiced cider, which would slake everyone’s thirst for both drink and warmth until after the third mass was celebrated in the midmorning. Following the final amen, Talbott, the steward, would serve the nine-course dinner that the cooks had been preparing for days.

Celeste sipped her cider and looked over the noisy company with a contented pride of place. For once, huge fires burned in both the hearths of the great hall. Holly and ivy garlands wreathed the chimney hoods and festooned the trestle tables that Talbott had already ordered set up. Up in the minstrel gallery, a threesome—two recorders and a tabor player — began to lay out their music. One of the early arrivals, Lord Jeffrey of Brownlow, had brought the musicians with him for the tournament, and had graciously loaned their services for the prenoon feast. Sir Roger passed among his guests, roaring at each with gladsome bellows. If he missed Walter’s presence, he gave no indication of it.

Celeste searched for Guy, but could not find him. In less than a day, she would be wed to Sir Roger and Guy would leave Snape forever. She had hoped to share a few private moments with him before the many events of the day overwhelmed her. Celeste swallowed back the hovering tears of disappointment at his continued absence. Perhaps it is for the best, she consoled herself. She had allowed Guy to become far too important to her. The stunningly handsome monk was not hers, no matter how much she longed for him. He belonged to God alone.

Skirting the company, Celeste made her way to the bay window that overlooked the field below the castle. Overnight, a colorful tented city had sprung up like magical mushrooms. The weather had been cold and cloudy, but it had not snowed for several days, which allowed a great many neighbors from far and near to hazard the journey to Snape Castle. More than one lord, upon meeting Celeste for the first time, had bowed over her hand and thanked her for alleviating the boredom of midwinter. The wives who had accompanied their husbands equally thanked Celeste for the opportunity to show off their colorful wardrobes to each other and for the pleasure of three days of gossip and news-gathering among themselves.