Tori Phillips (36 page)

He licked his lips again as his gaze lingered on Celeste’s breasts. Even through the thick cloak, they jutted out like a wanton’s. Aye, and he would make her play the whore—maybe even share her with his men. That sight might make him hard.

Tonight, bitch, you’ll be mine at last!

Chapter Twenty-Nine

A
t midday, Sir Roger allowed his guests only a brief respite, instead of the usual lengthy dinner. The knights had to make good use of the few remaining hours of winter daylight. In a tent beside the tiltyard, serving men laid out a repast of meat pies, cheese tarts, roast duck and chicken, hard-boiled eggs, bread, butter and ale. Everyone, even the ladies, ate standing up, which encouraged the speed of the meal. At least the tent and the press of steaming bodies helped to warm Celeste’s chilled skin.

Mon Dieu!
Why did the English live so far to the north? Celeste held her hands over a smoldering brazier. She doubted she would ever be warm again. Having broken several more lances before dinner, Sir Roger appeared in good spirits.

“There’s a wench!” he roared, catching sight of her amid the jostling crowd.

Celeste cringed inside, though she presented him with a smile.

“A kiss, mistress mine, for luck this afternoon!” her betrothed bellowed, while the onlookers cheered. Before Celeste could protest, he took her lips with his chicken-greased ones and saluted her with loud smacking noises.

Celeste wanted to wipe her lips and chin with her handkerchief, but decided to wait until she could do so in private. She had no desire to irritate her lord.

Her lord! Celeste clenched her teeth when she thought of Ormond as her husband. Whatever dreams she might have entertained last night showed no promise of coming true today. The sun had traveled over half his course across the pale sky. A few more hours, and all her hopes would be forever locked away in the secret place of her heart.

Plainly, the Knight of the Loyal Heart, whoever he might be, had played her a cruel jest. Tomorrow or sometime there after, she would take a switch to Pip for his part in the rogue’s masque. With a leaden spirit, Celeste resumed her seat on the stand, shivering under Lady Alicia’s fox fur rug. On her right, Sir Roger took his chair, from which vantage point he shouted at all and sundry.

The next hour blurred in front of Celeste’s eyes. The crashing of the jousters as they rode headlong at each other grew dimmer in her ears. Retreating behind her fixed smile, Celeste permitted the luxury of self-pity to wash over her.

Duped! She had been duped by everyone—beginning with her own father. How he must have chuckled when she rode so bravely down the beech-shaded lane from L’Étoile in August! He must have known exactly what sort of family the Ormonds were, and exactly how far away they lived. How satisfied he must have been to finally see the last of his most unwanted, and meddlesome fifth daughter!

Duped by the holy monks of Saint Hugh’s into thinking she was going to a good home. Duped by her aunt, who surely must have had some inkling as to what a horrible place they traveled to! Duped for three hundred miles by smiling faces who robbed her blind at every public house in England. And, most of all, duped by that handsome archangel himself, Brother Guy, who had brought her to this cold place, then fled, taking her heart with him, and leaving the rest of her to face her fate alone.

Lady Alicia’s cry of pleasure mixed with concern pulled Celeste from her dark brooding. Brandon and Harry Percy had entered the lists. Both young men gave no thought to saving their limbs, according to the countess, and they had chosen to fight both on horseback, and on foot with blunted swords. As she watched the long contest, Celeste had to admit that the men fought exceedingly well. In the end, the judges ruled in Brandon’s favor—the call greeted with an equal mixture of cheering and disapproval from the onlookers.

After Brandon and Percy retired from the arena, the pursuivant stepped forward and began to read the accumulated scores.

“The grand melee is next,” Sir Roger rumbled beside Celeste, his one eye shining with anticipation. “You’ll like that, my lady. A lot of color, a lot of noise.”

Celeste nodded, her smile even more frozen than before. Another one of her headaches began to form behind her eyes.
Ma foi!
In all her years in France, she had never been ill. Now it seemed not a day passed when she didn’t suffer a headache or an upset stomach.

The pursuivant rolled up his paper. He had opened his mouth to announce the main event of the afternoon when a blast of the challenger’s horn interrupted him. Startled, he looked first to the king of arms, then to Sir Roger.

“Oh, ho!” the host of the tournament chuckled. “An unknown knight, I surmise! Nice touch! I wonder who thought of it?”

Celeste felt her blood rush to her cheeks. Her Knight of the Loyal Heart had finally come! Headache banished, she sat up straighter in her seat and craned her neck to see who entered the ring.

The gates at the far end opened wide, to admit four riders, looking as ominous as the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse. The leader wore a colorful
jupon
emblazoned with the Ormond crows over his breastplate. The other three riders, ruffians all, were dressed completely in black. Sir Roger half rose out of his seat. A strangled choking sound came from his throat. Recognizing one of the squires as the hideous Deighton, Celeste collapsed against the countess, moaning softly.

Lady Alicia took Celeste’s clammy hand in her warm one. “What ails you, my dear?” she asked with a worried frown on her face.

Celeste’s heart hammered against her rib cage. “Sweet angels protect me,” she murmured. “It is Walter Ormond. I recognize his henchmen.”

Sir Roger stood, his thick legs braced apart, as the lead rider reined to a halt in front of the stand. “Most villainous knave! How dare you enter the lists! You have no right to wear the arms of a knight since you were denied that honor by the king. Begone!”

Walter lifted his visor. The silver metal framed his pale face, though his red-rimmed eyes burned like those of a maddened boar. “Salutations, Father!” Walter made an exaggerated bow to his enraged sire, then turned his disgusting visage toward Celeste. His lewd expression reminded her of illustrations of a grinning death’s-head. She shivered, and Lady Alicia’s fingers entwined with hers for comfort.

“And greetings to you, my bride, on this, our wedding day,” Walter continued. The crowd stilled and pressed closer to the palisade walls.

A wave of nausea swept over Celeste. Was this pestilent caricature her Knight of the Loyal Heart, for whom she had longed and hoped? This was the crudest jest of all.

“Your
bride!” The makeshift walls of the stand shook with Sir Roger’s fury. “You are a prattling fool! And therefore, being a fool, your suit should be a jester’s motley, not armor. Away with you, Sir Maggot! Your presence offends my eyesl”

Far from being angered, Walter snickered. “Methinks the winds blow a fetid stench hereabouts,” he remarked to Deighton.

Sir Roger motioned to the guardsman at the base of the pavilion’s stairs. “Escort this... this carrion in borrowed feathers from the field of honor!”

Deighton drew his sword and leveled it at the man. The flustered guard looked from the sharp point of the weapon to his master’s mottled face.

“See how fine this tyrant tickles!” Walter remarked smoothly. “But to the matter at hand. I have come for my rightful property—the Lady Celeste—betrothed to me eight years ago.” Raising his voice with each word, his complaint carried to the ends of the now-silent arena. “I demand justice for the theft of my wife! I challenge you, Roger Ormond, to combat. God will award justice and the lady to the victor.”

“You have no right to this place of honor!” the earl of Thornbury called out from his judgment seat above the spectators. “You have not taken the oath of knighthood.”

“True, my lord!” Walter shouted back. “But this is a family matter, and I choose to settle it here, in public. If my father is afraid to meet me in fair combat—”

“Grapper! My horse!” Sir Roger practically hurled himself down the stairs. “No unlicked pup is going to call me a coward and live to see the sunset!”

“What weapons?” asked the earl, though his expression made it plain that he disapproved of the proceedings.

“Pointed lances and sharpened swords,” answered Walter. He practically licked his lips as he said it.

“First blood?” The earl inquired.

“To the death!” shouted Walter, shaking his lance in the air.

“Sir Roger Ormond, do you agree to these terms?” The earl could barely contain the rage in his voice.

“I will begin at the varlet’s heels and reveal his poxed innards by inches!” the father thundered.

“I am going to be ill,” whispered Celeste to Lady Alicia.

“Not now!” the lady whispered back, squeezing Celeste’s hand. “Now, of all times, you must stiffen your spine. Chin up! Show the people you are worthy to be the prize.”

“Sacre!
I am no piece of chattel!” Celeste’s fury almost strangled the words in her throat. Her anger quelled the green-sickness in her stomach.

“Tell that to a man!” Lady Alicia snorted. The vehemence of her words surprised Celeste. “You must show that you are better than all of them! Look the part, even if you don’t feel it.”

Celeste stared deeply into Lady Alicia’s blue eyes, which now sparkled with icy fire. In them she saw Guy’s eyes staring back at her.

“For better or for worse, it will be over soon.” The countess had softened her voice.

“I fear it will be the worst. Sir Roger is tired, and has suffered several grievous blows” Celeste tightened her jaws together to keep her teeth from chattering. Sweet Jesu! Walter Ormond could yet be her husband!

Celeste drew herself up in her seat and assumed a cold expression. Inside, her stomach rolled and bucked with icy fear. Without seeming to move her head, she searched the crowd for Gaston or one of her men. None could be seen.

In the arena, Grapper helped his master into the saddle of his war-horse. Before lowering his visor, Sir Roger flashed Celeste a smile and roared, “There’s a wench worth fighting for!”

The crowd cheered. Celeste continued to grip Lady Alicia’s hand, and she prayed for the elder man’s safety and success. On him alone rested all her chances for a decent future.

The pursuivant scampered out of the way, and the two combatants, clad in identical heraldry, took their positions at the opposite ends of the field. Like twin bolts from a double crossbow, the two horses suddenly charged down the list on either side of the frail barrier. The thudding of their massive hooves echoed Celeste’s heartbeats as father and son drew closer. With a ringing clash, they met and dashed on. Walter’s lance splintered at the tip, where it had struck against Sir Roger’s shield. At the bottom of the turn, Walter threw down the damaged lance and took up a second that Deighton handed to him. Both Ormonds wheeled at the same time, and urged their horses down the course again.

The second pass knocked Sir Roger sideways in his saddle. He fought to regain his seat, but his feet slipped out of the stirrups just past the barrier. Celeste covered her mouth with her hand to prevent her scream escaping. Grapper dashed forward to catch the horse, and to snatch the fallen lance out of the way. Sir Roger staggered to his feet and drew his sword as Walter dismounted and advanced toward him.

The audience grew quiet again as the two men in the ring traded blows with their long doubled-edged blades. The resounding clang of each strike set Celeste’s teeth on edge. Her head throbbed anew. Forcing down her quaking nausea, she gripped Lady Alicia’s hand tighter. The freshening wind blew colder under her long skirts.

Walter proved lighter on his feet than Sir Roger. He danced from one side to the other, occasionally lunging to make a hit. Most of the time, he fended off his father’s more practiced swings. As the contest wore on, Sir Roger grew visibly tired. Walter landed a hard blow to Sir Roger’s helmet. Stunned by the concussion, the older man sank to his knees, though he did not drop his guard. Celeste moaned into her handkerchief.

Circling behind his father, Walter struck him hard between the shoulder blades, at the base of the skull. Amid the shouts of the crowd and calls of “Foul!” from the judges, Sir Roger fell onto all fours. Both Celeste and the countess rose to their feet. Walter hesitated a fraction of a second; then, rounding on Sir Roger’s blind side, he wedged his sword tip into his father’s unprotected armhole and drove the blade deep.

Sir Roger pitched forward onto his side. Before either the squires or the marshals could reach him, Walter leaned his weight on the hilt of the sword, forcing the point deeper into the inert body. Then, placing his foot on his father’s hip, Walter yanked the sword out and held it aloft. A red stream of blood ran down the length of the blade. Overcome with dizziness, Celeste swayed. Lady Alicia caught her in her arms and eased the stricken girl back into her seat.

Walter raised his visor, then pointed toward Celeste with the bloody tip of his weapon. “I claim the Lady Celeste as my rightful wife, as God is my judge!” he shouted. Throwing back his head, he laughed like a demented crow.

“Doomed,” Celeste whispered, squeezing her eyes shut against the horror before her. “I shall be worm’s meat before this year has turned.”

Chapter Thirty

T
he jarring note of the challenger’s horn again pierced the ice-chilled air. A murmur ran through the crowd. Lady Alicia’s body relaxed around Celeste.

“Who comes?” whispered Celeste, lifting her head and sweeping the hair out of her eyes.

“Another knight,” the countess answered, her voice strengthened with pride. “A true knight.”

“Non!”
Celeste shook her head. “I don’t believe in them anymore.”

“Then unshackle your disbelief and observe!” Lady Alicia pointed toward the gates.

As they swung open, three new riders dashed into the arena at full speed. One held high a lance to which was affixed a streaming white banner. A bloodred heart flew across the silk on a pair of golden wings. The crowd went wild with approval.