Tori Phillips (23 page)

A Grayfriar, slightly older than himself, fell into step with him. “You must have a great problem upon your mind, Brother, for I have been speaking to you for the last few minutes.”

Guy lowered his gaze in a mute apology.

“You are the silent Franciscan who travels with the French lady, are you not?” When Guy flashed him a surprised look, the Grayfriar chuckled softly. “York is a very small pond filled with large-mouthed fish. Here, news travels as fast as the plague. Rumor flies even faster.”

The two men crossed the nave, genuflected together in front of the high altar, then continued their walk down the far aisle.

“They say your lady is betrothed to the son of Sir Roger Ormond of Snape Castle. Is that true?”

Guy’s lips tightened into a thin line. He nodded. It pained him to hear Lissa’s fate spoken aloud, especially by one who did not know her.

The Grayfriar paused and placed a hand on Guy’s sleeve. Concern colored his open countenance.

“Did you know that Sir Roger’s wife died of the sweating sickness a month ago?”

Guy shook his head and made the sign of the cross for the soul of the late Lady Ormond. The Grayfriar followed suit.

“Sir Roger suffered a greater loss. His second son, as well as his only daughter, died within hours of their mother.” The Grayfriar moved closer to Guy and continued in a low whisper. “Furthermore, they say Walter Ormond—your lady’s intended—is riddled with the pox. They say he will not last out the year.”

Guy nodded brusquely. He did not need to be reminded of that unsavory fact. If it were not a sin, he would have spent this past month praying for Walter’s early demise. In unguarded moments, he had caught himself wishing it had already happened.

“Sir Roger wants an heir to carry on the family name. He knows that Walter cannot do it, even if he were married to the most... ah... fertile woman on earth.”

Guy glared at the shorter monk. How dare he discuss Lissa’s intimate duties in such a public manner?

The Grayfriar merely smiled at Guy’s frown. “Nay, hear me out, good Brother. They say Sir Roger means to marry your lady himself, and get another son upon her.”

Guy’s head snapped back as if he had been struck. A mass of conflicting emotions clashed within his soul. Relief—that Lissa would not be bedded with a pox-ridden husband. Fear, accompanied by sorrow—that a marriage to an Ormond would indeed take place now, no matter what happened to Walter. Anger—at himself, for wishing to prevent it. Confusion—wondering what he should do about his dedication to the church once he returned to the priory. Loss—that Lissa would be gone from him forever.

The Grayfriar cocked his head, with an understanding look. “Aye, the father is old, and not much to look upon, I warrant, but ’tis a better match for the lady.”

Poor Lissa, with her dreams of her handsome Knight of the Loyal Heart! Guy ached for her. He had never felt so powerless in his life.

“Be warned, Brother. The son, Walter Ormond, rides the king’s highways seeking his bride. If the rumor is even half-true, he means to wed her as soon as he can lay hands on her.”

Guy exhaled a breath that formed a misty cloud in the cold dampness of the church’s stone interior. With a sinking sensation, he guessed who had sought them at the Hawk and Hound. God’s teeth! What could they do now? Flee to sanctuary within the church? Lissa would never consider it. She was betrothed to the very man who sought so desperately to wed her.

Observing Guy’s expression, the Grayfriar nodded. “Forewarned is forearmed. I shall light a candle for you and your lady, and remember your cause in my prayers. Peace be with you, Brother.”

With that, the friar continued on his way. In stunned silence. Guy leaned against the sarcophagus of a long-dead crusader.

Sweet Jesu! Ignoring his need for food and water, Guy sank to his knees again. Covering his face with his hands, he prayed for guidance—this time, not for his own weakness, but for the future of his beloved lady.

Free her from her bond to the Ormonds, and I will do whatever you ask of me, Lord. I will lock myself away from her forever. I would give my life for her
.

An hour later, when Guy rose, light-headed, from his knees, a fierce smile wreathed his lips. Though no complete plan had formed in his mind, at least he knew how to buy some time for Lissa. And time was God’s most precious gift to his earthly children.

Celeste shuffled her cards as a shower of sleet drummed against the windowpanes of her sitting room at the Rose and Crown. She should be thankful that here she was warm, dry and safe. A cheerful fire crackled in the grate, and several lit candles expelled the gloom of an early twilight. At the other end of the room, Dom and Flipot taught Pip the intricacies of dicing, in robust French. Downstairs, she knew, Gaston and the other men enjoyed the landlord’s hot cider, while keeping a watchful ear and eye for news of their recent adventure.

Sighing, Celeste laid out a hand of patience on a small table. Would this horrible journey never end? Had her father had any idea how far away Snape Castle was when he sent his daughter to England with only dear Aunt Marguerite and a set of silver spoons? She gave herself a little shake. Who was she to question her parent’s decision? She reminded herself how lucky she was that Sir Roger had agreed to have her for his son.

Celeste glanced at the card in her hand.
Le valet de coeur
—the jack of hearts. What was he like, her husband-to-be? This jack of her heart? The colored figure on the pasteboard card seemed to wink mischievously at her. Would Walter smile in such a roguish way? Did he have a sense of humor? She hoped so! Would he like to sing, to dance, to play card games, to tell amusing stories?

Celeste closed her eyes and tried once again to imagine their first meeting. Her Walter would ride out on his white horse from his banner-bedecked castle. The golden rays of the sun would reflect off his burnished silver armor as he came toward her. And when he reined in his horse before her... Oh, yes, the horse would stop so suddenly it would rear on its hind legs. Then, when Walter had the animal under his firm control, he would raise his helm and she would see...

Guy’s beautiful face floated into her musings. His golden hair framed his features, and his smile bedazzled the sun so much that it hid its face in a cloud for shame at the beauty of her betrothed lord—Sir Guy Cavendish.

Celeste swept the pack of cards to the floor.
Non!
Not Guy—in his brown Franciscan’s robe. Never Brother Guy—who was God’s man, not hers. It was Walter whom she was to marry very soon. Walter Ormond. She must never forget that.

Kneeling amid the cinders, Celeste gathered up her cards. When she wiped a speck of soot off the face of the jack of hearts, it smudged the picture. Hastily she buried the blackened image deep in the pack. The last card she retrieved was the ace of spades—the dark card, and the one worth the most points. Was it her imagination or did the bit of pasteboard seem to glow in her hand?
Silly goose!
She shuffled it into the deck and scolded herself for her superstition.

The weather finally improved several days later. Gaston hurried the men to load the new cart he had purchased. Celeste stood beside her horse, rubbing its nose.
Ma foi!
Her baggage had grown considerably smaller since she had left France, nearly three months ago. She had sailed across the dreadful Channel with trunks full of gowns, shifts, undergowns, petticoats, laces, ribbons, stockings, veils, cloaks, coifs and slippers. She sighed.

“It is my slippers that I think I miss the most, Starlight,” she confided to her horse as she fed him pieces of a carrot Pip had produced from some place best not known. “A whole box full of them, washed away in a wretched river. And then, my favorite red ones... you remember them, eh? The ones with the golden stitching? I wondered if they burned up at that peench-’potted inn?”

Something touched her arm. When she looked around, she saw Guy standing by her side. She drew in her breath at the sight of him. He had been absent from her company ever since she had awakened at the Rose and Crown after a long twelve-hour sleep between clean sheets. As he gazed down at her, he looked as gaunt as he had before their stay at Cranston Hall, but now his face was different. In the past, he had frowned when he looked at her. This time, something else lay hidden in the mysterious depths of his blue eyes. Celeste didn’t know what it was, but she approved of the change.

His stone facade had fallen away. The face of her own special guardian angel had finally come alive.

Again slowed down by a cart, the bridal party plodded their way up the York-to-Edinburgh post road. Guy hoped they would reach the village of Thirsk before early evening overtook them. Twenty miles a day was the best they could manage, considering that the roads through the Vale of Yorkshire were not as well maintained by the crown as those farther south. Though cold, at least the weather was clear, and everyone bloomed with good spirits, even the obnoxious Daisy.

Bringing up the rear, Guy kept to his own thoughts for company, though periodically he would look up when he heard Celeste’s laughter. She passed the time in alternately teaching French and teasing the smittea Pip. Under the shadow of his hood, Guy smiled to himself when he heard her jests and quips carried back to him on the cold, bright air. He thanked the saints that he was not the source of her amusement this time.

Lost in his contemplation of the future, particularly Lissa’s future, Guy did not hear hoofbeats behind him until Paul, who rode nearby, turned, in his saddle, then called out, “Riders approach!”

Up ahead, Gaston wheeled Black Devil around and drew alongside Celeste. Pierre pulled the cart off the road to allow the approaching party room to pass. Guy yanked Daisy to a halt, then looked over his shoulder.

Five men thundered down the road from the direction of York, the hooves of their horses tearing up great clods of mud as they came. All of them were armed with longbows and daggers. Their leader carried a double-bladed broadsword at his belt—a knight’s weapon. A knot of apprehension twisted in the pit of Guy’s stomach. Scanning the empty road ahead of them, he cursed inwardly. A perfect spot to waylay travelers! His fingers itched for a sword to hold.

“Who comes?” Paul asked out of the side of his mouth. His hand rested on the hilt of his short sword.

Guy squinted in the fading light. The lead horse wore a saddlecloth emblazoned with a coat of arms. As they drew nearer, Guy choked on his sudden anger. The three black crows on a golden shield proclaimed the Ormond crest. Walter Ormond had come a-wooing at last.

In the cart, Pip let out a small yelp, then jumped out of the seat and ran back to Guy.

“’Tis the very knaves I told you about, Brother Guy!” The boy’s eyes widened with fear. “The same as at the Hawk and Hound.”

Sweet Jesu! Guy’s heart raced in double time. His anger threatened to burst from the confines of his control. Lissa should have been greeted with music and flowers, not by a band of cutthroats.

Guy pointed to Gaston. Pip turned on his heel and sped back down the road, where he relayed his message to the venerable soldier. Guy pulled the edge of his hood low over his face, hoping Walter would not recognize him from his days at court.

As Walter rode closer, Guy seethed with his impotent anger. The Ormond spawn visibly crawled with the hideous scourge of the pox. Guy could barely look at the man’s face without retching.
Sweet Saint Anne, protect Lissa from this... this
...

“Do you know them, Brother Guy?” Celeste drew up beside him.

He didn’t want to answer, yet he must. She would know the truth all too soon. On his slate he wrote,
Walter Ormond.

“My betrothed?” she whispered in her low, husky voice. She gave a weak, desperate laugh—challenging Guy to retract his words.

Sick at heart, he nodded.

“What is wrong with his face?” she gasped.

Pox
, Guy wrote, then rubbed out the word, wishing he could erase Walter with equal ease.

“Mon Dieu!”
A glazed look of despair spread across her features.

Guy wanted to seize her in his arms and run. He wanted to cast off his robe of peace and don his armor. He wanted to grind what was left of the miserable Ormond into the mud. Instead, he could do nothing but sit in silence upon a paltry donkey and pray Walter did not recognize him.

“By the devil’s bulging cock!” Gaston reined in his stallion beside Celeste. “The boy tells me those are the very dogs we left behind us. God’s teeth! We should have kept their horses. We shall fight them now.”

“Non.”
Celeste shook her head, all the color drained from her cheeks. “We cannot. You see, dear Gaston, that is Walter Ormond—my husband-to-be.”

Guy tensed, waiting for Gaston to erupt in righteous anger. Instead, the man went white, then spoke to Celeste in a terse undertone. “Give me your leave, my lady, and I will make you a widow within the hour.”

Celeste shook her head.
“Merci
, Gaston, but I must see this... thing to the end, for the honor of my family.” Squaring her shoulders, she sat up straighter in the saddle as she watched the riders circle them.

Chapter Nineteen

“’T
is the wench, I’ll warrant, m’lord!” Deighton’s unshaven face split into a leer. “An’ by the look o’her, she’ll fiddle a merry tune to your joints!”

After several weeks in Deighton’s gross company, Walter could hardly wait to be rid of him—with eight inches of good steel betwixt his ribs. Ignoring the foulmouthed knave, Ormond regarded his stiff little bride, who sat so primly in her saddle. She’d be pretty if she smiled. Walter clamped his jaws tighter. What woman had cast him a welcoming smile in the past six months?

“Celeste de Montcalm?” Walter shouted. Of course it must be she, but he’d best confirm it.

The wench inclined her head slightly. Was she afraid her headdress might fall off?

“Oui, ”
she answered crisply.