Tori Phillips (28 page)

“I look forward to seeing the rest of your dowry, if all your other pieces are as well made as these.”

The dreaded moment had arrived. A dull pain formed at Celeste’s temples. Guy squeezed her hand tighter. She might as well get it over with. Perhaps Sir Roger would reject her if the dowry did not please him.

Celeste assumed her haughtiest look. “That is my dowry, Sir Roger. Every jot and tittle of it. The apostle spoons are indeed ‘divers goods of gold and silver,’ according to the marriage contract.” She leveled her gaze at him, though inside she quaked. He wouldn’t dare strike her, would he?

“What?” Sir Roger slammed the spoons onto the table. Several apostles fell to the floor with a clatter that startled the dozing wolfhound. “The devil take it!”

The master of the castle drew himself up, swelling in size like a bullfrog. Celeste tensed, waiting for his explosion. Guy stepped around the chair, shielding her with his body.

“I have been poorly used!” Sir Roger bellowed. “Your father has cheated me of the fortune he promised me! I should have known not to trust that malmsey-nosed French knave!”

A mixture of burning anger and cold shame choked Celeste. She opened her mouth to defend her family’s honor, but the strong pressure of Guy’s thumb on the back of her hand stopped her. He shook his head when she glanced up at him.

Sir Roger splashed more wine into his goblet, then drank it down in one gulp. “Did you know of this perfidy?” he asked, staring at Celeste, his one eye glowering in the firelight.

She took a deep breath before answering. “Eight years ago, my father signed that contract in good faith, my lord. I was his youngest child then, and so he expected to endow me with all the requisite goods. Since that time, my four older sisters married—each with a dowry larger than anticipated. Then my little brother was born. Now that my father has an heir, naturally he wants to preserve the bulk of his estate for Philippe.”

Without giving Sir Roger a chance to renew his diatribe, Celeste rose, with all the dignity she could muster. “If my dowry displeases you, you may send me packing at any time. If this is your intention, please inform me soon, so that my men and I may return to France before your foul English weather locks us here in your...home until spring. I bid you good night, my lord.” Still clutching Guy’s strong hand, Celeste made a dignified exit.

Her fortitude carried her as far as the top of the stairs, where her knees gave out under her. If Guy had not been at her side, she would have tumbled backward, down the stone spiral steps. Guy lifted her in his arms and carried her into her room, where he laid her on the bed.

“What will become of me now, Brother Guy?” she asked, though she did not expect an answer from the silent monk. “I am a pawn in old men’s follies. I cannot stay here. I cannot return home a rejected spinster. Perhaps I should enter a convent, but I do not think I was born to be a nun.” She hugged one of the thick bolsters and gazed into the low fire in the grate.

Folding back his cowl, Guy revealed the sad expression in the depths of his sapphire eyes. Kneeling by the bedside, he took both her cold hands in his and brushed his lips across her fingers. The shock of his intimate touch sent her jangled emotions into exciting unexplored territory. Celeste gasped as a liquid fire coursed through her. A low moan escaped her lips.

Instantly Guy dropped her hands and stood, turning his broad back to her.

“
Pardonnez-moi,
Brother Guy. I am at sixes and sevens and know not what to do. Please do not turn away from me now. I feel so friendless in this cold place. My sorrow is such that I have cause to eat my bread with ashes.” Celeste lay back on the bed and stared, unseeing, at the shabby canopy above her.

Guy crossed to the fireplace and tossed a few more logs onto the flames. Soon a brighter fire blazed merrily in the room. Then he returned to Celeste’s side and flashed her a brief, heaven-kissed smile, that lightened her mood. At least, Brother Guy would remain faithful to her — as a true knight should.

He wrote on his slate,
Sir Roger loves his wealth better than a wife.

Celeste’s lips quirked in a rueful smile. “
Now
you tell me this? Fah! So play the prophet, good Brother. What am I to do?”

Guy folded his hands and stared thoughtfully at the floor.

If he suggests I pray for the answer, I shall box his handsome ears!
Celeste sat quietly, though her stomach churned inside her. How ghastly the meeting had been. Far worse than she had imagined it.
Sacrebleu
! What if Sir Roger decided to wed her to Walter after all, just to spite her? She balled her hands into fists. If he tried that, she would run away across the moors. Death would make a better bridegroom for her!

Feeling a sob well up in her throat, she bit her knuckles until the pain banished her self-pity. Turning at her muffled sounds, Guy frowned when he saw her chewing on her fingers. He took them from her mouth, and gently rubbed the reddened joints. Celeste longed to lay her head against his shoulder and cry out her heart’s sorrow. Only propriety and her sense of family honor held her back.

The troubadours had sung of the de Montcalms’ courage in battle for the past three hundred years. Though she was only a woman, Celeste knew she had the blood of those brave warriors in her veins. Besides, what would her mother, not to mention Aunt Marguerite, say if they saw her in the arms of a cleric—a young, breathtakingly handsome monk?

Guy finished his ministrations far too soon. Then he took out his slate.

Delay
, he wrote.

Confused by his single word of advice, Celeste plucked at the threadbare patches on the woolen bedcover. “I do not understand, Brother Guy. Delay what?”

Your marriage
, he wrote under the first word.

She cocked one eyebrow at him. “You think he will have me either for himself or his son? Pah!”

He needs an heir
. The chalk words burned into her brain.

“And I am merely the means,
oui?
”

Guy hooded his eyes, and the room seemed somehow darker. He slowly nodded. Then he pointed to the word,
Delay
.

“I would gladly do that until doomsday, Brother Guy. But how? Why?”

Guy rubbed out the first message, then wrote,
Advent starts at midnight day after tomorrow.

Celeste studied the message carefully. Advent was the church’s time of fasting and penance before the solemn feast of Christmas. Four weeks during which no songs were sung, there was no dancing in the hall, no red meats were eaten—and no marriages were performed. An invisible weight slid off her shoulders.

“What can happen in four weeks?” she ask softly.

A miracle
, he wrote, then added,
Pray.

Guy slipped into the drafty hall after bidding Celeste good-night. He knew he left her with a lighter heart, for she had tried to entice him into playing a game of piquet. For the safety of his shaky vows, he declined.

It was all well and good that Celeste felt better, but what of himself? The delaying tactic, which he had first conceived in the peace of York Minster, would work temporarily, but what miracle could he hope for on Christmas morning? He didn’t know the answer, only that he felt strongly in need of the extra time.

Deep within his soul, Guy knew that he must stay at Snape until the resolution of Celeste’s dilemma. Father Jocelyn must have foreseen this. Hadn’t he placed Guy’s vow of silence upon him until Celeste’s wedding day? On that fateful day, Guy would speak to Celeste in his own voice—and when he did, he would
not
congratulate her on her marriage to an Ormond.

As Guy crossed the upper gallery, he heard angry voices below in the hall. The stone walls of the castle echoed and reechoed with the turbulent meeting between father and son. Drawing his cowl low over his face, Guy stole down the stairs to listen and observe.

“The wench is rightfully mine, by all that’s holy,” snarled Walter. He paced in front of the fireplace. Guy noted that the younger Ormond limped slightly. Perhaps he had tried to walk home barefoot.

“Do not speak of what’s right and what’s holy — at least not in the same breath, you changeling!” Sir Roger stopped more wine into his goblet. Guy wondered how much the elder Ormond had drunk since Celeste had left him.

“The bitch used me poorly, and I mean to return her the compliment—either as her husband or as her stepson. Mark my words, I shall be revenged upon her and that mangy cur of a priest.” The firelight outlined Walter’s ghastly sores with a hellish paintbrush. He looked like one of the damned in an illuminated manuscript.

Sir Roger leaned over his son, his bulk dwarfing the emaciated man. “And you mark me, dissembling villain, you will not touch a hair of the lass’s head, or I’ll spare you any further suffering of your... illness. She’ll get me a fine son in your place—aye, two or three, by the look of her hips. As for her confessor, ’tis a mortal sin to strike down a priest.”

“And you’re afraid for my soul?” Walter sneered.

“I care not a fig for it—but you shall soon, when you roast on the devil’s coals. Be gone! I’ll hear no more of your puling. The lady will be my bride, and you can go hang yourself. Ayel And take those unhallowed slaves of yours with you. You will be in fine company then!” Shattering the goblet against the side of the fireplace, Sir Roger stomped from the hall.

Walter stared into the dying fire for a long time, while Guy watched from the bottom of the steps. Then, with a terrible oath, Walter limped away in the opposite direction.

Guy pressed his back against the clammy wall and sent a heartfelt prayer to heaven.
Give me a lance, a sword and my charger for one hour, Lord, and I will praise your name forevermore.

Chapter Twenty-three

“G
ood Morrow, my lady! I have goodly news for you.” Sir Roger’s voice boomed across the hall and echoed down the soot-encrusted rafters as Celeste entered at the far end of the room.

Her heart thumped against her ribs, and a thick knot formed in her throat. Though she had not known her host for long, Celeste already realized that a cheerful tone was not Sir Roger’s usual one. Biting her lower lip to keep it from quivering, she cast quick glances up and down the sides of the huge hall, hoping to spy a familiar face there, either one of her men’s or Brother Guy’s—especially Guy’s.

Save for Sir Roger, the redheaded steward and that huge sleeping hound, the hall was empty. As Celeste approached Sir Roger’s chair, he waved the steward away.

“Good news is always welcome, my lord,” she replied evenly as she sat in the chair he offered her.

“I have given the matter of your marriage contract much thought, mistress. Though your perfidious father tricked me in the matter of your dowry, I shall not hold that against you.” He folded his arms across his chest and beamed down at her.

Celeste ran her tongue across her teeth. Brother Guy was right. Sir Roger did mean to wed her, no matter what. Under the loose folds of her dress, she knotted her fingers together.
Sweet Saint Anne, give me courage!

“I am glad to hear of it, my lord.” Where was Brother Guy?

“As for Walter, even if I were disposed for him to wed, your dowry is too poor for an eldest son. No one would dispute that.”

“Of course not:” Celeste lowered her lashes, though she continued to study Sir Roger through her half-dosed eyes. Obviously she was not the only one who had sat up half the night considering her plight.

“But, as my third wife, a large dowry is not so necessary, especially considering your youth, your beauty and your good health.”

Particularly my good health for childbearing. I wonder if he will examine my teeth as he would a brood mare’s?

“Therefore I have decided to overlook the letter of the agreement, and instead honor the spirit of the contract. Your father gave you to an Ormond, and you shall wed an Ormond — tomorrow.”

Though she had expected something like this, the actual sound of it sent a shudder through her. She felt a momentary wave of panic as her mind scrambled to recall Guy’s advice. Delay. She drew in a deep breath and willed her trembling body to relax.

“You do me a great honor, Sir Roger....” she began. A rustling in a shadowed archway caught her attention. Brother Guy, his hood once again concealing most of his face, glided into the room. Celeste relaxed her shoulders as she continued.

“But there is one thing that my mind misgives, Sir Roger.”

“What?” he barked. The dozing wolfhound merely twitched his ear in his sleep.

Celeste lifted her chin a notch. “The marriage contract states very clearly that it is your
son
I am to wed. I must inform my father of the change in the terms and receive his permission to marry you, my lord. Surely you agree it is the honorable thing to do,
n’est-ce pas?”

“The devil fiddle ’em!” Sir Roger bellowed. “’Twould take till Candlemas to send a message to France and receive an answer. A plague on it, mistress! ’Tis wintertime. Haven’t you noticed that there is ice in your pitcher in the mornings?”

Guy lightly rested his hand on her shoulder. His warm touch reassured Celeste. “
Mais oui,
Sir Roger. I have already had the pleasure of the snow down my back and in my shoes. But hear me out, I beg you—” To her dismay, her voice broke slightly. She hurried on. “I am sure that my father would be most pleased to agree to this new proposal.” She cocked her head and allowed a coquettish smile to play upon her lips. “And perhaps he would even be disposed to send a larger dowry.”

Guy squeezed her shoulder. Celeste drew strength from the warmth of his approval. Sir Roger sank into the chair opposite hers and leaned over to scratch the dog’s massive head. The animal sighed with pleasure.

“A larger dowry, say you?” Sir Roger repeated, with a thoughtful look in his single eye.

Celeste released the breath she held. “
Oui,
my lord. To do you the proper honor, as you are lord of Snape Castle.” She could almost hear the clink of the gold coins that danced in Sir Roger’s greedy imagination.