Tori Phillips (35 page)

The countess smiled as Celeste dipped a curtsy.
Ma foi,
thought Celeste as she rose and took her seat. The countess had the same smile as—No! She mustn’t think of the monk. He was gone.

“’Tis a cold day, my dear. Please share this lap robe with me, and perchance we shall keep each other warm.” The countess possessed a warm, musical voice, and she spoke French with a delightful accent.

“Merci beaucoup,
Countess.” Though Celeste recognized the charming, tall woman beside her as the one who had smiled at her in the hall earlier, she couldn’t shake the feeling that they had met before. There was something so very familiar about her.

After Talbott tucked the thick white fox fur robe around the legs of both ladies, he withdrew behind his master’s chair. Celeste burrowed her gloved hands deep inside her hanging sleeves, under her cloak. The day would indeed be a cold one. Perhaps she would be so numb by this evening, she would feel nothing during the dreaded wedding night. She fervently hoped so.

The countess leaned closer to Celeste. “Since we are to be neighbors, I hope we may also be friends. I am Alicia Cavendish.”

At the sound of the name, Celeste turned to the lady with a wide-eyed stare.
“Mon Dieu!
Cavendish! That is the same name as Brother Guy, who escorted us here.”

The lady smiled. “The very same indeed. Guy is my second son. My eldest, Brandon, is one of the knights who jousts in your honor this day. See? Here he comes now!” Her face glowed with motherly pride as a tall golden-blond man entered the tiltyard astride a massive war-horse.

Brandon paused before the ladies and bowed from his saddle, his mouth curving into a mischievous smile.

“Is he not handsome?” his mother whispered to Celeste. “But I fear he makes a wide swath among the unmarried ladies with those devilish good looks.”

“Mais oui,
” Celeste agreed. Though not as tall as Guy, and not possessing Guy’s angelic face, Brandon Cavendish bore the same family stamp as his brother. His light blue eyes twinkled when his gaze rested on Celeste. Raising his fingers to his lips, he blew her a kiss before moving on.

Lady Alicia chuckled. “Do you see? He is such a rogue! I pray he soon falls to the charms of a young lady and is wed. He is much too handsome for his own good.”

“As is your other son, Brother Guy,” Celeste remarked softly as she watched Brandon proceed down the palisade. His red banner with the wolf’s head crest snapped in the breeze. Could Brandon be the knight who had ignored her favor so long ago in France?

The countess sighed. “My Guy was made too beautiful for this world. I suppose that is why he took to the church.”

Under Lady’s Alicia’s soft tone, Celeste detected a note of sorrow. “You do not approve of Guy’s vocation, eh?”

The countess’s blue eyes, so like both her sons’, regarded Celeste for almost a full minute before she answered. Then she smiled. “Guy has always been ruled by two things—his honor and his firm convictions. His honor has remained constant, and of that I am proud. His firm convictions, however, tend to change with each season. However, I think he has, at last, found what he wants. I pray he can attain it.”

Celeste merely nodded.

“You seem troubled, my dear,” Lady Alicia continued. “Are you taking a chill?”

Celeste shook her head. How could she possibly explain her disappointment at Guy’s hasty departure and her fear of the nuptial bed to Guy’s mother without sounding disloyal to Sir Roger, who was her husband in all but ceremony and deed? “I think I am one of those nervous brides, my lady. And I had hoped Brother Guy would stay to see me married,” she added.

“Guy has always been abrupt in his leave-taking,” his mother remarked. “Not because he has so little care for those he leaves, but because he has too much.”

“Ah,” Celeste murmured. She hoped that was true. She would like to think she meant a little something to her handsome guardian angel.

“And here is my husband, the earl of Thornbury,” the countess announced as she applauded her husband’s entrance into the arena. “Thank all the saints, he does not joust today. He is to act as the king of arms and judge the contents.” She lowered her voice to Celeste. “He adores jousting, but his eyesight is not what it used to be. It has taken me these past two weeks to talk him out of challenging Sir Roger.”

Celeste smiled into the folds of her cloak. Though she had just met the countess, she hoped they would become fast friends.

The parade of knights ended. Celeste hid her disappointment behind a smile. None had entered the tiltyard wearing the winged heart. Perhaps her mysterious knight was already here, and would reveal himself later. Just then, a multi-pronged tip of a lance appeared at her feet. When she looked up, she saw Sir Roger extending it toward her.

“Your favor, mistress mine!” he bellowed.

While dressing, Celeste had tucked a small blue veil inside her sleeve—the very same she had proffered to the Knight of the Wolf many years ago. But that cherished favor was for another—if he ever came. Instead, Celeste stripped off her veil of black gauze from her coif and twined it around the lance head. Sir Roger roared his pleasure, waved aloft Celeste’s favor, then tied it around his right arm.

Brandon rode up to his mother, his lance fluttering with many ribbons, veils and sleeves. “Methinks I will start a true war if I chose one of these favors to wear.” He eyed his bedecked lance with a rueful smile. “Perchance you would honor me with your favor, Mother, so that I will be able to joust in safety.”

Laughing at her eldest son’s amorous difficulties, Lady Alicia attracted a long green ribbon from her sleeve. “You do me a great honor, my son.”

“Nay, you are saving my life, good Mother.” Brandon turned his attention to Celeste. “As always, I fight for the honor of the queen of the joust. Lady Celeste,” he told her in French. “Though if I should beg for your favor, I fear Sir Roger would unhorse me in earnest.”

“Then ride with my blessing,” Celeste replied, smiling at him. His voice! Where had she heard it before?

Bowing to both ladies, Brandon spurred his great bay destrier to the gate where he would retire until his joust was called.

“My son will need all your prayers, Lady Celeste,” his mother remarked watching his exit. “Brandon jousts to the point of sheer recklessness.”

Celeste wondered what sort of a knight Guy would have been, then chided herself for thinking of him. Guy had returned to his monastery. The entrance of the pursuivant ended her further musings. In a loud, high-pitched voice, the brightly clad man announced the beginning of the tournament. From outside the ring, the horn of challenge, sounded from the Tree of Honor, on which hung the wooden shields of the participating knights. The crowd grew still as the pursuivant introduced the first defender, Lord Jeffrey of Brownlow, and the first challenger, hotheaded Percy of Alnwick.

Lord Jeffrey, his destrier clad in black-and-gold caparisons, burst through the arena’s gates amid much cheering and took his position at the far end of the tiltyard. Sir Henry Percy, in green and white, made an equally exciting entrance, applauded with unabashed enthusiasm by many of the ladies.

“They say young Harry Percy fights to ease his wounded heart,” Lady Alicia murmured to Celeste.

“How so?” Celeste watched the young lord lower his visor and hoist his lance.

“He was betrothed to the king’s new mistress, Anne Boleyn. When the king turned his eye on her, Harry was sent north to marry Shrewsbury’s nagging daughter. ’Tis not a gladsome match, I fear.”

“I am sorry for him,” Celeste answered, thinking of her own unhappy marriage to come.

After three thunderous passes and several shattered lances, both knights retired from the field, with the honors going to Sir Henry.

Sir Roger entered the lists as the next defender. As he raced his horse past Celeste, he shouted out his war cry, “Ormond to me!” Grapper, acting as his master’s squire, followed, bearing the Ormond banner of three black crows on a gold background. Sir Griffith, master of the Cheviot, followed as the challenger.

Celeste held her breath as the two men, clad in full armor, wheeled their horses into position at opposite ends of the long arena, then spurred their mounts into a full gallop toward each other. The pounding hooves of the massive destriers shook the ground as they drew closer on opposite sides of the six-foot wooden barrier. On the first pass, both lances missed their mark.

Lady Alicia chuckled. “I do believe Sir Griffith is pulling up his thrust. Watch on the next pass, my dear. The Cheviot will allow your betrothed the honor of striking his shield.”

As the countess predicted, Sir Roger shattered his hollow lance against Sir Griffith’s shield. The household and villagers of Snape cheered their lord.

“It would not do for the host to fail in the lists, especially on his wedding day, would it?” Lady Alicia arched one eyebrow in a very knowing manner.

“Mais non.”
Celeste burrowed deeper into her cloak. How utterly embarrassing for everyone to see that Sir Griffith had given that point to the older man!

On the third pass, Sir Griffith leveled his lance across his horse’s neck and cleanly struck Ormond’s wooden shield, shattering his lance. Sir Roger swayed in the saddle from the impact, but managed to stay upright until he exited the yard. Sir Griffith followed at a leisurely pace, accepting the acclaim of the crowd.

Lady Alicia rolled her eyes. “I am glad for your lord’s sake that he did not fall. ’Twould have given Sir Griffith the highest score so far.”

Celeste merely nodded. Talbott appeared with a small tray of mulled cider and sugared nuts for the ladies.

“Is Sir Roger well?” Celeste asked the steward.

Talbott pursed his lips. “He’ll be a bit sore this night, but methinks ’tis his pride that is badly bruised. He will seek satisfaction anon. Fret not, my lady,” Talbott added in an undertone. “He will be well enough to do his duty by you this night.”

Celeste colored. That wasn’t what she had meant at all!

Lady Alicia held her cup gingerly. “’Tis good to hold this hot drink against my fingers,” she remarked with a smile.

“I am sorry to hear you suffer from aches in the joints,” Celeste murmured politely. She prayed Lady Alicia was not the type who took pleasure in cataloging her ills.

The Countess shook her head. “Not that affliction yet, thank the Lord. I have been most busy these past four weeks, sewing saddlecloths and banners for my son.” She nodded with satisfaction. “A few pricked fingers is a small price to pay,” she added. “You shall see my handiwork anon.”

As Celeste sipped her hot drink, her gaze swept over the crowd across from her. She smiled when she saw Gaston and four of her men, clustered around several buxom maids. From the look of it, her men were more interested in the tournament of love than in that of arms. Farther along the high palisade she spied Pierre. Next to him, Pip rode on the shoulders of a tall peasant. Both boys shouted and whistled as the next two combatants charged into the ring. Lucky for little Pip to have such a fine vantage point. Celeste tried to see who was the poor soul who bore the excited boy’s weight, but his head was hidden in a large green hood. She must try to find the kind man later and give him a penny for his burden.

In the ring, the challenger neatly unhorsed his opponent on the second pass. The defender hit the ground with a resounding crash. Immediately his squire raced to his side. The fallen man didn’t move. The crowd grew quiet. The squire knelt and spoke to his master. The defeated lord groaned, then sat up. The squire helped him remove his fluted helm. With a wave of his hand, Sir Thomas of Rothbury conceded the contest to Sir Robert of Morpeth. Then his squire helped the injured knight out of the arena, while Sir Robert rode around the perimeter of the palisade, accepting the accolades of the crowd. He bowed to Celeste as he passed by her.

When she next looked for Pip and Pierre, she could not find them. Their place at the wall had been taken by Nicholas and several of his fellow guardsmen.

Inside Ormond’s tent, Grapper tossed a bucket of cold water over his master’s bowed head, then wiped him dry with a thick piece of toweling.

“God’s teeth!” Roger bellowed, shaking the drops from his eyes. “A pox on Cheviot’s innards! He’ll yield the crow a pudding one of these days!”

Grapper eased his irate lord onto a stool and began to massage Sir Roger’s shoulders. “Will you issue him another challenge, my lord?”

Ormond chewed an end of his mustache as he considered the question. The devil take that churlish Griffith! Made Roger look the fool in front of his own people—and the French girl. Aye! That blow would have unhorsed him, if he wasn’t the better rider of the two. On the other hand, there was no point in inviting another public humiliation. Act the chivalrous knight now—and catch the knave in his cups later. Then transform the fat villain into an ape. Besides, Ormond had another challenger to meet before dinner. He must save his strength for Lord Jeffrey—and, later, for the wench in bed.

Roger closed his eyes and pictured himself thrusting a lance of a different sort into that soft, yielding body.
Tonight, Celeste, you’ll be mine at last!

A pair of deep sapphire eyes observed Celeste from under the shelter of an oversize hood. He had always admired that red gown with the black fur edging the hem and sleeves. He well knew how it hugged her breasts and outlined her slim waist. Celeste made a beautiful Queen of Truth and Beauty, to rival any illustration in her Book of Love. He just wished her dark eyes didn’t look so haunted. No matter, he would soon make them sparkle with joy.

Tonight, my love, you’ll be mine at last!

Red-rimmed eyes glowered at the figure in crimson sitting to the right of his father’s empty chair. Let her laugh and simper now; she’d dance to a different tune anon. His tune, the way it should have been—the way it would be again. The old dog might have his morning, but the sun had not set. Walter ran his tongue along his teeth. A plague on it! He tasted the salt of his bleeding gums. At least he had used these past few weeks wisely, and not in wine. He felt fitter than ever. Strong enough for both his sire and the French minx.