Tori Phillips (34 page)

“Is the earl a quarrelsome man?” asked Celeste as Nan dropped several woolen petticoats over her head before tying them around Celeste’s waist.

Mistress Conroy pursed her lips before answering, “The earl has never liked the master, and Sir Roger returns the favor.”

“Sir Roger’s done a right lot to make his way in the world, my lady,” Nan whispered. “He got himself married to a noblewoman with property—that be his first wife, more than twenty years ago, afore my time. Me da said that Sir Roger planted his crops on lands that weren’t his—”

“Nan, watch that prattlin’ tongue of yours, lest it get cut out!” snapped Mistress Conroy.

“Non,
I wish to hear all.” Celeste chewed on her lower lip. She knew she shouldn’t be listening to the servants’ gossip, but the tale they told explained a great deal about her bellowing husband-to-be.

Knowing she had Celeste’s full attention, Nan preened. “Me da said that the master took bits of the earl’s land over the years. Bits that the earl had ne’er used. Me da said that Sir Roger gained as much land in twenty years as his father did in an hour on Bosworth field. Aye, an’ each year the taxes got higher for the folk what lives on that land. When his first wife died, straightaway he married again.”

“Lady Edith, God rest her soul.” Mistress Conroy crossed herself again, then tied on a second set of fur-lined sleeves over Celeste’s tight red velvet ones.

“Aye, an’ she brought my lord more gold for his coffers. The earl has threatened to make all right with the poor folk on the lands he claims, but Sir Roger has the sheriff o’ York a-lickin’ his codpiece, an’—”

“Nan!” Mistress Conroy shot the maid a murderous look. “You best watch your mouth, girl. Lady Celeste may not speak our English fair yet, but I reckon she knows a word or two.”

Celeste knew exactly what Nan had meant, and the information troubled her. Sir Roger had made it clear that once she was married, Gaston and the others were no longer welcome at Snape. With only Pip as her guardian, she would be totally at the mercy of a rapacious, greedy man.

“If Sir Roger is so tight with his money, why does he have this tournament, eh?” she asked thoughtfully. Outside, the sky began to lighten with the dull gray of dawn.

“Lord have mercy, my lady! He expects your father to pay for that. I heard him say as much to Talbott, when the steward asked him that very question.” Mistress Conroy brushed back the stray tendrils of Celeste’s hair before adjusting the red-and-black French hood on her head.

Icy flutters spread themselves through Celeste’s empty stomach. She knew that her father would not send another sou after her. His troublesome, mischief-making fifth daughter was locked up tight in a castle at the coldest end of the earth, and there she could stay, in whatever state her husband pleased to keep her. Though her lips quivered at the thought of Sir Roger’s ire when he discovered the empty lie of an enlarged dowry, Celeste lifted her head proudly. At least this one day was hers. Today she was the Queen of Truth and Beauty, and she planned to savor it to the dregs.

Before descending the stairs, she looked out once again at the encampment. The colorful pavilions and banners snapped in the brisk north wind. Though she searched each heraldic device in turn, nowhere did she spy the beloved symbol of the winged heart. Instead, an old familiar one caught her eye.

“Ma foi!
Mistress Conroy, who is that with the wicked wolf’s head?”

The housekeeper squinted in the direction where Celeste pointed. “Aye, that is the one I was a-tellin’ ye about, my lady. That belongs to the earl of Thornbury.”

Memories of another tournament, on a windy summer’s day in France, welled up inside Celeste’s mind. Memories of a tall knight on a dark gray war-horse—one who hadn’t seen her outstretched favor. “Oh, la, la! I think perhaps the earl will notice me today,
oui?”
she murmured, more to herself than to the two women beside her.

“He won’t help but t’ notice ye, my lady,” Nan pronounced. “Ye look fit for a king.”

Sir Roger, garbed in his padded jacket and thick hose for the joust, greeted his bride in the hall, bestowing on her a long, lusty kiss. His male guests approved with a mixture of amusement and envy.

“Give over, Ormond!” Jeffrey of Brownlow called. “For tasting such sweetness, you might have broken your fast before mass.”

Let the dog bark! Roger had them all by the tail this day. Aye! Even that priggish Thornbury had to dance to his tune. Sir Roger slid his arm around Celeste’s waist as they went into the chapel together.

A pox on it! He and his little bride should be saying their marriage vows this minute, instead of waiting until after supper! Roger’s eye ran hungrily over the raven-haired beauty. What a delicious morsel awaited him this evening! He cared not who knew it. Let the rest of them lust after her all they wanted. Aye, let every dog of them whimper for her, and so fail in the day’s sport. This tournament idea of hers was not such a bad one after all. Never had Roger seen so many of his enemies under his roof at the same time. He looked around the chapel and chuckled. Every last one of the rump-fed rogues envied him this day! Roger pulled Celeste tighter against him.

What was the matter with the little minx now? He cast her a look meant to quell, but she didn’t see it. Instead, she seemed to be looking around the filled chapel for someone, while the dithering old priest droned through the Introit prayer. What knave had caught her fancy already?
No more of that, mistress mine! I’ll imprint myself so deep in you this night, you’ll never wish to look for another.

At the conclusion of Saint Stephen’s mass, the great hall erupted with the loud calls for bread and meat. Dogs barked and fought with each other over the scraps. Serving men and wenches waded through the noisy, jostling throng holding heaped platters over their heads. Everyone ate standing up. As soon as the knights finished and rinsed their hands in the proffered ewers, they dashed off to the encampment beyond the walls. Their ladies, attired in every hue made possible by the dyer’s art, took a little more time, their mouths moving constantly, either to chew the cold beef or to chew on juicy pieces of gossip.

Celeste stood slightly apart, not knowing quite what to do next. She did not feel confident enough in her grasp of the English language to sally forth among the ladies and join in their talk. And none of them made a move toward her, though every so often one stately matron would look up and smile at her.

Gaston pushed his way through a pack of quarreling hounds.
“Zut alors!
For a miser, the master of Snape puts on a good show.” He flashed Celeste a wide grin. “The day is a good one for breaking a number of thick heads!”

Celeste smiled up at him with gratitude. In two sentences, he had made her feel much better.
“Oui,
my good friend. And I suppose you would like to do some of the head-breaking yourself?”

Gaston gestured dismissively. “Blasts and fogs, my lady! I but give way so that there will be some one or two left standing by supper! Puppies! Whelps! What could an Englishman learn that a Frenchman hasn’t already practiced, eh?” He offered her his arm. “But come now—away with you. The heralds have been told to form for the parade, and you must take your place.”

Celeste slipped her hand around his muscle-knotted arm. How strong and reassuring he felt! “Gaston, have you seen Brother Guy?” she asked as he led her down the stairway.

“The priestling?” The old soldier’s lips twitched. “I think he is gone, my lady.”

Celeste pulled him to a stop at the bottom of the steps. Tears pricked at her eyes, though she would not give them her permission to fall.

“How can that be? He did not even say goodbye to me!” She bit her lower lip.

Gaston’s eyes dared to twinkle though he spoke to her in a gruff voice. “Brother Guy is a man of honor. He promised to guide you until your wedding day, and
voilà!
Today is your wedding day, so—pffft! He is gone—as if he were never here.”

How could Guy have done this to her? Didn’t he know how much he meant to her? She had expected him to bless her in her marriage. She had hoped to hear him finally speak a few words to her. Now he had flown away like a freed lark.

“Courage
, my lady! Hold your head up high,” Gaston gently admonished her. “The monk is gone, as he should be. But—” his brown eyes twinkled all the more“—who knows what this day will bring?”

The Knight of the Loyal Heart? Yes, she hoped he would come, and yet... Celeste swallowed back an enormous lump. She realized now, with stunning finality, that the greatest knight she would ever know was the one who wore a plain brown robe of wool tied at the waist with a frayed rope and only sandals to cover his poor feet in the snow. She thought of the new robe she had made for him, folded away in the chest in her room, waiting for the gift-giving time on New Year’s Day If she had only known Guy was leaving, she would have given him her present earlier.

“Lady Celeste de Montcalm!” Gaston gave her arm a little shake. “What are you? A crybaby? Do you intend to shame me in front of these knavish peasants? Hold your head up—and remember who you are!”

Celeste blinked away the tears that threatened, then squared her shoulders. How many times had Gaston said those very words when Celeste had been summoned into the presence of her unsmiling father to face retribution for her latest piece of mischief? She flashed him a brave smile, though her heart felt dead within her.

“Allons-y,
my good Gaston! Let us march into the fray together.”

His smiled widened.
“Très bien, ma petite!
This day, I think the English have met their match!”

Despite the cold blustery weather, the meadow filled with every manner of folk enjoying the first of the twelve days of Christmas. Even though she ached with the emptiness of Guy’s absence, Celeste’s spirits could not help but lift at the gladsome sights and sounds around her. After four dark weeks of fasting and penance, the holiday revelry was infectious.

As she walked through the tented village, Celeste saw squires and pages dashing hither and yon, with lances, swords and bits of armor in their hands. Occasionally they passed by a pavilion whose flap was tied back and Celeste saw the knight inside, standing patiently while his squire fastened him into a complicated array of hauberk, leg harness and breastplate shined to a silver gleam. One young gallant saw her and winked as she passed.

“Insolent pup!” Gaston growled under his breath.

Children, squealing with excitement, ran underfoot, heedless of the crowds. As Gaston and Celeste drew closer to the makeshift tiltyard at the far end of the meadow, they saw vendors of hot nuts and gingerbread doing a brisk trade among the nobility and the common folk alike. A
jongleur
played a sprightly tune on his recorder, while a boy and girl—brother and sister, by the look of them—whirled and danced. The onlookers applauded and tossed small coins into the mud at the musician’s feet.

Gaston pulled Celeste out of the way as a squire led a huge war-horse past them. Red and green ribbons festooned the stately animal’s mane and long tail, and his hooves gleamed with some sort of black polish. Celeste had never seen one of these huge horses so close before, and she marveled at its size.

Gaston snorted. “Pah! I would have my Black Devil any day, rather than sit astride one of those plow horses.” But Celeste noticed a wistful look in his eye as he said it.

The frozen cattle pond provided another source of entertainment. A large crowd had gathered to watch a young man who appeared to fly like a bowshot across the ice. Gaston shouldered a path for Celeste, so that she might better view this marvel.

“Isn’t that Nicholas?” she asked Gaston, recognizing the young castle guardsman. “How does he do that?”

Gaston squinted. “The devil take it! He’s tied shank bones to his feet. The knave will break his neck in due time.”

Catching sight of the new mistress of Snape, Nicholas executed a quick twist. The crowd applauded as he skated backward past them, a huge grin on his face.

“Quelle merveille!”
Celeste applauded loudly with the rest. “Is that not a wonder, Gaston?”

“Oui,
” he conceded gruffly. “But you’d best pray, my lady, that Pierre does not see him. That scamp would steal the bones off the platters at dinner to try such a harebrained trick himself. And who would have to put back the pieces after he breaks his arm or leg, eh?
Moi!”

Through the crisp air, unseen trumpets blared their golden notes of invitation. Gaston jerked Celeste away from the icy entertainment.

“Sacrebleu!
They are about to begin the tournament without the Queen of Truth and Beauty!”

Chapter Twenty-Eight

C
eleste rode her palfrey into the tiltyard beside the beaming Sir Roger Ormond. Despite the gray overcast of the sky and the chill wind whipping the banners straight out from their poles, a goodly crowd hung over the double palisade wall that separated the godlike combatants from lesser mortals. The good cheer of the crowds, the golden-throated trumpets, the bright colors worn by all the guests and the eager expectation of the sport to come did much to lift the pall shrouding Celeste’s spirit.

As she proceeded slowly past the stands that held the families of the knights, Celeste vowed to forget her earlier pique over Guy’s sudden departure. Gaston was right. The good monk had done all he was commanded to do—and more—to ensure her safe arrival at Snape Castle. Now, true to his honor, he had retired. She must accept that fact and go on with the life she would begin this night.

When Celeste drew abreast of the main reviewing pavilion, Talbott descended the stairs and helped her down from her saddle. Then he escorted her to one of the raised chairs on the dais. The empty place on her right was reserved for Sir Roger after he had jousted.

“My lady of Thornbury, I have the honor to present Lady Celeste de Montcalm, betrothed to my lord Ormond.” Talbott bowed to the dignified woman seated on the other side of Celeste. “My lady Celeste, may I present the countess of Thornbury, the honored wife of our liege lord?”