Silent Knight

Father Jocelyn shook his head. “Understandable, given the circumstances.”

“It was over a week before we landed safely in a place called Bristol. I must confess that I fell to my knees and kissed the ground.”

“Also understandable.” Father Jocelyn had done the same thing upon his return to England.

“Pah! Had I known what was in store for us here, I would have turned right around and ordered that miserable boat back to France!”

Brother Giles tittered. The prior flashed him a scorching look. Father Jocelyn wished he could send the younger man back to the kitchen; however, the lady’s reputation, as well as the prior’s, required that a third party be present at all times. Who would have expected that sober-minded Giles would be reduced to a quivering mass of suet pudding by a smoky voice and a pair of violet eyes?

“Once our stomachs returned to their rightful places, we set out, going north toward Chester, I believe. I fear I am not acquainted with the English countryside.”

“No one would expect you to be,” interjected Brother Giles with feeling. Father Jocelyn glared at him.

“Oui! You have grasped the very kernel of the truth. Our party wandered over hill and dale, because it amused the common folk to misguide us—even when we paid them for their directions. I am sure we looked a fool’s progress as we turned in circles at their whim. Indeed, at one point we discovered we were headed in the opposite direction, when we found a milepost pointing back toward Bristol!”

“Surely there must have been some honest folk you met on your way?”

Lady Celeste shrugged her shoulders slightly. “Oui, though it took us nearly a month to find one. When at last we were headed north again, the skies turned against us, and it rained for days on end.”

“I fear our weather is one of the crosses we must bear,” the prior remarked gently.

“It rained so much that all the little brooks became rushing rivers. We lost a wagon while fording one. If it were not for Pierre’s quick thinking, we would have lost the horses, as well. He leapt on the back of the lead mare as she thrashed in the water. At peril of his own life, he cut the traces. Our Pierre is only sixteen, but he is very brave, no?” Her eyes sparkled as she recounted the harrowing incident.

He’s probably suffering the loss of his wits. The prior kept that observation to himself. The girl warmed to her tale, despite its gravity. Father Jocelyn found himself wondering if she secretly relished the adventure. How unsuitable for a young lady of gentle breeding!

“We were able to save some of the furnishings my mother sent with me for my new home, but the wagon? Fah! Firewood! ” She sipped her wine. “Gaston sent the first driver and his team back to Bristol.” She sighed. “They are most likely at home by now.”

Father Jocelyn suspected the young lady wished she was back in L’Étoile, as well. He couldn’t blame her. When he saw a small frown knot itself between her delicate eyebrows, he asked, “There is more?”

Lady Celeste sighed again. “Oui, though I wish there were not. I believe we ate some poorly cooked food in an inn outside of...” She struggled to think of the name. “Outside of Hereford. Many of my men came down with stomach cramps. It was most piteous to hear them moan. At one point, I feared for their lives. My dear little maid, Suzette—she was so very sick. We stayed in that miserable town for almost two weeks. At last, everyone recovered, but they were very weak. Suzette lost so much weight, I could not bear the thought of making her continue the journey. She is only fourteen, Father. When she was well enough, I sent her back to Bristol with three of the men.”

The prior shook his head. The lady sitting opposite him didn’t look much older than her maid, yet she seemed to have been made stronger by the series of setbacks. “And now your aunt. It seems God has sorely tested your mettle, ma petite.”

Her eyes flashed with an inner fire. “You have spoken truly, Father, yet I must go on. My father gave his word that I would wed Walter Ormond, and the word of the chevalier of Fauconbourg is golden. Even if I arrive at Snape Castle in only my shift, I must go on. The honor of my family is at stake.”

The bridegroom’s name jangled a faint bell within Father Jocelyn’s memory. He had heard something about a branch of the Ormond family that was not altogether savory. “Walter Ormond? Would his father be Sir Roger Ormond?”

For the first time that evening, she truly smiled. The effect nearly shattered Brother’s Giles’s fragile composure. “Oui, the very same!” She clapped her hands with delight. “Do you know him, good Father?”

The prior wet his lips before answering. He had half a mind to tell her to flee back to France immediately, but he suspected she would face death before disgracing the family name. “The Ormonds live on the northern outskirts of civilization. I fear they are a rough and uncultured lot. Tell me, my child. How is it such a well-bred lady as yourself happened to become betrothed to the heir of such a far-flung estate?”

Lady Celeste swallowed at his words, though her gaze never wavered. “My father came to know Sir Roger and his son eight years ago, when your King Henry met with our king, Francois, at a beautiful city of tents outside of Calais, which people now call the Field of Cloth of Gold.” Her violet eyes gleamed as she recalled that near-legendary event.

“My father was a member of Francois’s court, and he entertained Sir Roger often during that fortnight. Oh, Father Jocelyn! I was there for a few days with my mother and sisters. It was truly the most magnificent sight!”

The old prior nodded. He had heard of the sumptuous feasts, the splendid tournaments and the brilliance of the two glittering courts, each vain monarch trying to outshine the other. He could well imagine how such a magnificent sight would have impressed the imagination of a young girl. “How many sisters have you, ma petite?”

“I have the honor of being the fifth and youngest daughter of Roland de Montcalm.” Her chin tilted up a notch.

“Five daughters! And brothers?”

“Only one survived. Philippe is the baby of the family.” She looked wistful as she spoke of her little brother. “We spoil him terribly.”

“Are your sisters married?” Father Jocelyn wondered if they were as striking as the lady opposite him.

“Oui, that is why my father allowed all of us to come to the Field of Cloth of Gold—to find good husbands. I am the last—and the only one who was betrothed to an Englishman.” She sighed softly, then flushed and glanced at the prior. “Pardon my manners, Father. It is not that I do not like the English, it’s just...” She groped for the right words.

“It’s just that you would have rather stayed in France, near your family?” he suggested in a gentle voice.

Lady Celeste rewarded him with a smile that lit up the small, Spartan guest room. Brother Giles hiccuped with suppressed pleasure.

“You are very wise, Father, to know my mind.” She cocked her head to one side. “Perhaps you can tell me what I am to do now that my aunt is sore injured and my only wagon is broken. I am most needful of good counsel. I must go on. I cannot return to L’Étoile. It would disgrace my father’s name, and...and...” She bit her lip.

“Yes, ma petite?” Father Jocelyn resisted the urge to lay his hand on her bowed head.

“It is my only offer of marriage, Father,” she confessed in a near whisper. “After settling dowries on my four older sisters, there was very little left for me. Sir Roger is kind enough to accept me when I bring his son so little to the marriage settlement.” She gave her slim shoulders a shake, then stared into the candle’s flame. “But I will bring him my honor, my virtue, and... and I will try to love him, as well.”

“Then Walter Ormond will be a rich man indeed,” murmured the prior, though a wing tip of apprehension brushed against his soul.

The morning air smelled fresh and clean when Guy emerged from the darkness of the chapel, where he had spent a cold, dank night lying facedown on the flagstones. The sun’s rays fell with welcome warmth on his chilled skin and robe, still damp from the rain of the day before. Guy moved stiffly across the cloister toward a low gate. A day spent tending the monastery’s herb garden would be good for both his sore body and his troubled mind. He wished Father Jocelyn had let him wear a hair shirt while he prayed on the chapel floor. Its rough discomfort might have banished the visions of deep violet eyes and flowing black hair that had danced through Guy’s meditations during his nocturnal penance. He hoped the troubling lady was gone by now—on her way to wherever it was. Anywhere but here at Saint Hugh’s.

Silver, rippling laughter brought Guy to an abrupt halt. His heart skipped its normal rhythm and strained against the confines of his chest. No member of Saint Hugh’s Priory laughed with such crystal sweetness, not even the youngest choirboy. Stepping back into the shade of a pillared archway, Guy peered over Brother Timothy’s prized rosebushes. Seated on a stone bench not ten feet away, the temptress who had plagued his prayers now toyed with Jeremiah, the kitchen’s ill-tempered cat.

“La, puss-puss,” the lady crooned, stroking the sensitive whiskers of the black-and-white mouser with a long piece of straw. “What a fine, handsome fellow you arel”

The cat’s docile behavior surprised Guy. He sucked in his breath when he saw the lady lean over and pick up the overfed creature. Guy tensed, expecting Jeremiah to lash out with his claws bared.

“Truly, you would make an admirable knight, if cats could wear armor,” she continued, settling him on her lap. “You are such an elegant puss-puss,” she continued in admiring tones, her fingers moving through Jeremiah’s thick fur in long, even strokes.

Guy shivered as he watched her graceful hands. Should he warn her of the cat’s irascible nature? Yet that would mean he would have to speak to her again, to look into those beguiling eyes once more. The short encounter of yesterday had been enough to send his thin defenses crashing down.

Perhaps it would be best for the sake of Guy’s troubled soul if the cat did scratch the girl. Then she would go away, or at least leave the cloister rose garden. Only a little scratch would do — the merest swipe. Not enough to draw blood, nor to injure her creamy skin. Just a suggestion of a scratch. Perhaps only the sight of a half-open talon. Guy bit back his alarm as the lady, heedless of the risk she took, swung Jeremiah over her shoulder and draped him around her neck like a fur collar.

“See,mon chat?” The lady picked up a small book, bound in dark blue leather, that had been lying on the bench beside her. “You would look most magnificent, I think, if you were dressed as the Knight of the Loyal Heart.” Absently, she rubbed Jeremiah behind his ears. “See this picture? You would wear the helm of the winged heart most nobly, oui?”

Closing his eyes, the cat nudged his head against the palm of her hand. Guy could almost hear the creature purring. Perhaps Jeremiah was befuddled by her French. Maybe he had never been this close to a woman before. In any event, he wasn’t acting normally. In fact, the cat looked as if he had found paradise within the dark tresses that peeped from under the lady’s sheer veil. Guy trembled with indignation, though he could not tear his gaze away from the simple domestic scene in front of him. That woman—nay, that chit of a girl—was the devil’s handmaiden, brought here to seduce the souls of this community of celibates. She even wove her witchcraft on the bellicose Jeremiah!

“La, dearest cat, you would save the poor damsel, Sweet Grace, from the evil power of the awful sorceress Denial, wouldn’t you?” The lady rubbed her cheek against the cat’s fur, as she turned to another page in her book and held it up for Jeremiah’s inspection. Even at a distance, Guy could see the exquisite detail of the illustration, rendered in jewel colors and bright gilding.

A book of romance and troubadour songs. Strange devotions for a well-bred young girl to read, especially within the walls of a holy monastery. Guy knew he should turn away in disgust. Every moment that he lingered in the shadows of the archway only heightened the danger to his vows.

Her hands fluttered over the cat like two butterflies in the sun. A sudden breeze threatened to lift the velvet French coif from her head. Guy caught himself wishing it would. He swore under his breath, then, aghast at what he had just said, whispered a hurried prayer after his oath.

By the Holy Grail, what was happening to him? Who was this creature but yet another one of those empty-headed females whom he sought to escape once and for all time behind these gray stone walls? He had had enough of women in all shapes, sizes, social orders and states of undress in the past twelve years to convince himself that not one of them was worth a groat.

Ever since Anne Boleyn had caught the king’s roving eye, Great Harry’s lust had doomed to extinction whatever shreds of honor and virtue still lingered in the corners of Westminster Palace. Guy counted himself well out of it. Now, when he least expected it, temptation played in the October sunshine. And his body—not to mention his very soul—responded like a starving man at a feast. Angrily he stalked toward the herb garden, taking care that he made no noise to attract the attention of those fascinating violet eyes.

Not even the bewitched Jeremiah looked up.