Tori Phillips (6 page)

“Oh, la, la! I have offended you, Bro-
ther
Guy?” The lady hurled the
th
sound after him. “Did they cut out your sense of humor when they shaved your tonsure?”

Guy chose to ignore her. He was bound to escort her to Snape Castle; he was not obliged to like her. In fact, a little mutual aversion might be healthier for the sake of his soul. Gaston, riding ahead of Guy, grinned over his shoulder at him before returning his attention to the meandering roadway ahead.

How wise Father Jocelyn had been to invoke this vow of silence! Had he not been so constrained, Guy knew, he would have broken a number of the holy Commandments by now. His long frame rattling with each plodding step the donkey took, Guy rode in stoic silence. They said the Blessed Mother had ridden a donkey all the way from Nazareth to Bethlehem when she was nine months pregnant with the Holy Infant. How on earth had she stood it?

Behind him, Lady Celeste maintained a surprising silence. Guy relaxed his shoulders. Perhaps she felt some remorse for her laughter and would maintain her own silence until eventide. Guy fervently hoped so.

A fly tickled his ankle. He shook his leg, then squinted against the sun at the milepost ahead. How many miles was it to the next town? The fly returned, this time landing on the back of his calf. Repressing the urge to swat at it, he shook his leg again. Saint Francis of Assisi, patron of his order, enjoined that the monks should respect the natural world and all its creatures, one of which was “Brother Fly.”

I’m being tested, Guy thought as the annoying Brother Fly moved up to roam at the open nape of his neck. He waved his hand at it.
Respect all God’s creatures
,
great and small.
The fly hovered at the sensitive skin behind his ear. Guy waggled his head to and fro. Why didn’t Brother Fly pester Lady Chattering Magpie instead? Again he shook his head at the persistent insect. His conscience pricked him. It was wrong of him to wish ill upon the lady—or upon the poor fly, for that matter.
She
probably would have no compunctions about killing it. The fly landed on the bald patch of his tonsure. Guy brushed his fingers over it. Why couldn’t the creature bother Daisy? Weren’t flies supposed to be drawn to horses and their kin? They deserved each other. The persistent insect tickled his tonsure again.

One of the rear men-at-arms guffawed. Guy heard the other two shush him, though there was an odd tenor to their hissing. Suspicion formed in the back of Guy’s mind. More noises, sounding for all the world like a number of fools’ wind bladders, confirmed his theory. When next Brother Fly touched his ear, Guy whirled in his saddle.

Celeste froze, her eyes wide with surprise. In her hand, she held a long stalk of roadside grass, its downy tip inches from Guy’s shoulder. He opened his mouth, remembered his vow in time, then pressed his lips tightly together.

“Poor Brother Guy!” Celeste murmured, recovering her composure. She held up the offending grass as if it were a queen’s scepter. “What? Nary a smile? Not even the barest movement of your lips? Pah!” She sighed as she tossed the grass away. “Surely a smile is not breaking your vow of silence, good Brother? A smile is very quiet.”

Her eyes sparkled with merry mischief, and her bowed mouth curled upward before it broke into a beguiling grin. Sweet Lord! How could any man resist such a charming aspect—even if she was just a mere girl!

“I ask you this, Brother Guy,” she continued, as her smile increased in warmth. “If the good God above did not want us to laugh, why did he make it so pleasant to do so?
Oui
, it is easier by far to laugh than to frown,
n’est-ce pas?
” Cocking her head again, she regarded him through her long dark lashes.

Guy stared at her without moving a facial muscle, though his lips quivered to return her smile with one of his own. By the rood! Celeste had played a goodly trick on him with her piece of grass. In an earlier time, he would have—Nay! He could not give in to her teasing. Their journey together had just begun. He must maintain a firm upper hand.
Pride goeth before the fall,
a little voice whispered in the back of his mind.

The travelers picnicked in the forenoon by a clear spring that bubbled out of a cleft in the rocks before it continued on its rushing way to the sea, sixty miles to the southwest. The October breeze held the last warmth of the year, and wanton puffs of wind occasionally lifted the light veil covering the lady’s hair. A few stray tendrils of black silk had worked their way loose from the confines of her French hood, and these tantalizing bits of beauty kissed her cheeks as the breezes did what Guy’s fingers longed to do. Catching his wandering thoughts before they continued to their natural conclusion, Guy withdrew from the lady and her men. Seated on a grassy knoll beside the spring, Guy looked heavenward and began to say the office for the sext hour.

Behind him, he heard the low murmur of French, punctuated by male laughter. Daisy and the horses champed on the clumps of grass with noisy satisfaction. Above him, a flock of wild geese winged southward, to the warmer climes of Spain, honking their progress as they flew. An idyllic day. Just the sort of day Guy used to go a-hawking. In his mind’s eye, he saw his favorite female peregrine soar from his wrist into the polished blue overhead, then pause at the zenith of her ascent. She could hang in the air, as if frozen in place—a black dot against the canopy of the sky. Then, folding her wings, she would drop at tremendous speed, snatching a dove in flight, before the gentle bird ever realized her fate.

Guy closed his eyes against the beauty of the day, trying to shut out images of bygone pleasures—pleasures he had happily renounced only a few months ago.

“Bro
ther
Guy?” Her husky voice swooped upon his thoughts as surely as his hawk had attacked the dove. Slowly, he opened his eyes.

“Does your vow also mean you do not eat?” Lady Celeste proffered a fine linen napkin on which she had arranged a tempting choice of bread, baked that morning in the priory’s kitchen, wedges of apple, a soft white cheese and a half breast of cold roasted chicken. “If you grow faint with hunger and fall off that most ridiculous animal of yours, none of us will be able to lift you up again. You are far too... large.”

Her gaze roved unashamedly over him, pausing at his shoulders, then moving down across his chest. Though she stood more than three feet away, he swore he could feel a searing heat wherever she looked. The lady blinked, then glanced away, instead of pursuing her assessment below his rough hemp belt. “In truth, you are quite the tallest of our company,” she concluded with a delicate shrug of her shoulders, a careless movement that Guy found too enchanting.

“Your wretched beast has my deepest sympathies” Celeste thrust the food at him. “Eat, good Brother. Here is wine—good French wine.” She held out a small clay cup, brimming with a ruby liquid. The sweet wines of France had been one of his earliest downfalls, when he first encountered them years ago, while attending King Henry at the fabulous Field of Cloth of Gold. Guy’s taste buds quivered treacherously.

Shaking his head, he gently pushed the cup away, pointing to the spring. Her black-winged brows rose high across her forehead. “You drink water? Fah!” She wrinkled her face in disgust as she regarded the sparkling stream gushing a fat jet from the rocks. “The water of England is not drinkable,” she pronounced in clear tones of authority. “And even if it were, this damp climate would not encourage the drinking of it. Here, Brother Hardhead.”

She placed her food and wine on the grass beside him, then turned away with a wide sweep of her burgundy skirts. “Eat, and give thanks.” She tossed the words over her shoulder as she picked her way back through the grass. “Or starve and so go to the devil!”

Guy struggled to repress his grin. What a little spitfire she was! Good! The lady would need every spark of spirit, if she was to survive the gloom of Snape Castle and the hands of her betrothed, Walter Ormond. The sweet taste of her apple turned sour in Guy’s mouth as he remembered the last time he had seen Walter.

Ormond had been near twenty then, though his behavior had suggested five or six years younger. His father’s eldest son, Walter had fancied he cut a fine figure amid Great Harry’s sumptuous court, when, in truth, the nobles had laughed at him behind his back. Their humor had turned to mocking soon enough, and from there to animosity, except for Walter’s small group of preening hangers-on. In a self-indulgent court where the royal pleasure commanded dancing, cardplaying, masques and hearty good times, Walter’s gambling debts, overindulgence in expensive wines and obnoxious behavior had soon drawn disgust within the highest circles.

As to women, the servants had gossiped that young Ormond mounted them like a shameless dog—here, there and everywhere. Such behavior had made a deep impression—and one not long tolerated. Within two short years, Walter had managed to get himself banished not only from court, but from London, as well.

That had been four years ago, and if the rumors wafting around the gaming tables and the tiltyard were to believed, “Ormond’s Spawn” had not yet learned his lesson, but, instead, continued his wastrel ways in the north. There, far from the refinements of the courtly life, Walter had sunk into coarser pursuits.

Guy could barely swallow the crusty bread as he considered the odious embrace into which he led the lady. How long would it take Ormond to curb her saucy humor? When would those twinkling purple eyes be filled with perpetual tears? How soon would the bloom in her cheeks turn to ashen gray and dark circles settle themselves under her eyes? And how many years would it be before the little French bird would give up her light spirit within Snape’s cold stone walls?

Unthinking, Guy snatched the cup from the grass and downed its contents in one ferocious gulp. The Bordeaux’s unaccustomed tang smarted, making his eyes water. By Saint George, he hadn’t meant to drink her wine! Nor to eat her good cheese and sweet fruit. He had promised himself to dine only on bread and water, in penance for his wandering thoughts. He caught himself before he dashed the cup against the rocks. What injury had the cup done him? Nay, ’twas the little temptress’s spell that wove itself about him. A trill of her laughter brought him back to the present. With a quick prayer, asking for strength and forgiveness, Guy rose and ambled back to the group.

“
Eh bien!”
Gaston grinned at the sight of the empty cup in Guy’s hand. “It is good you eat and drink well. Forgive my bluntness, Brother Guy, but from the looks of those shoulders, you would have made a better knight for your king than for the good Lord. Those hands were made to draw a bow, hold a sword or stroke a—” Gaston broke off with an abrupt fit of coughing that left his countenance even ruddier than before.

Maintaining his composure, Guy stared over the sergeant’s shoulder, as if he had no idea what the remainder of Gaston’s observation might have been. The lady, either unmindful of the implied remark or choosing to ignore it, stood and brushed a few crumbs from her gown.

“Do not tease the good brother so, Gaston,” she remarked mildly, attacking the
th
sound with a sharp thrust of her tongue. “His shoulders must be wide enough to carry the weight of all our sins with him when he prays for us.
N’est-ce pas,
Brother Guy?” A flutter of mirth danced on her lips.

Inside the long sleeves of his robe, Guy clenched his fists, digging his nails into his palms. His heart hammered against his chest.
How long, O Lord, will I be able to resist
her? When his breathing became more steady, he pointed to the sky, then to the horses.

“Oui,
he is right, my lady.” Gaston gave her his arm. “The sun does not wait for us. We must hurry on, if we are to reach a decent inn before dark.”

“I hope the days to come are as pleasant as this one,” the lady remarked as Gaston helped her into the saddle. She arched one eyebrow at Guy when he settled himself once more on Daisy’s bony back. “I do enjoy such gladsome company. And so we shall make merry all the way to Snape Castle.” She urged her horse into a walk.

I should be escorting you to my home, Lissa, and not into the maw of the Ormonds.

That thought from nowhere seared his mind like a flaming arrow. Its sharpness and heat so amazed him, Guy reined Daisy to a halt and found himself sneezing in the dust of the mended wagon as the lady and her luggage ambled past him along the king’s post road.

By the holy Book, was he fast losing his wits?

Chapter Five

“F
or shame, Brother Guy!” Celeste clucked her tongue at him. “Why must you frown on such a pretty afternoon? God saw fit to give you a...” She paused as she surveyed him intently. “A passable face, but you mar it with a sour look.”

Guy could only grimace his frustration. Couldn’t she leave him alone? Why didn’t she talk to Gaston, or one of the other men? Guy squinted into the sun. Two more hours of good light before they would have to start looking for lodging. Surely she could do something else in that time besides concentrating her entire attention upon him. Where were her manners? Hadn’t anyone ever told her she shouldn’t make personal remarks, especially to men she barely knew?

“Poor Brother Guy,” Celeste continued ignoring his unsociability. “Perhaps the wine at noon did not agree with his digestion. What think you, Starlight?” Leaning over her horse’s neck, she spoke into its pricked ear. All the while, her eyes twinkled with lavender amusement.

What in the name of all the saints was a mere man supposed to do? She knew he wasn’t allowed to speak. Guy ducked to avoid her pretty eyes. A girl like that shouldn’t possess such winsome weapons. In truth, Guy could not recall another pair of eyes that had glowed with such a joy of life. One glance from her and a man could declare himself drunk from the experience. Her eyes were beautiful, so full of fire, so full of passion, so full of the promise of—