Silent Knight

Celeste poured half a cup and held it out.

The patient took it and sipped in silence. Celeste fidgeted with one of the embroidered roses on her yellow satin skirt. The candle sputtered, a thin wisp of smoke curling back onto itself as it rose toward the low plastered ceiling. After a strained silence, Marguerite handed back the cup.

“Surely they must have wine in this place. I shall speak to that Brother Cuthbert about it. He shall know my mind on the subject by the terce bell tomorrow, I assure you!” Marguerite nodded to her niece.

“I pray you have mercy on the poor man,” Celeste replied, pitying Brother Cuthbert even more.

“Mercy?” Her aunt looked surprised at the very idea. “Lissa, am I not always the soul of understanding, tact and mercy?”

Celeste cleared her throat. “So you have often told my sisters and me,” she countered as diplomatically as possible.

“And so I shall be.” Another uneasy silence draped itself over them. Celeste made a move to leave, thinking her aunt needed to sleep, but the older woman’s grip remained firm around Celeste’s hand. “Sit still, child, for I have much to tell you, and there is so little time.”

Puzzled, Celeste leaned forward. “Oui, Aunt? I am listening.”

Marguerite patted her cheek. “You were always such a good girl. It is a pity that my brother was too pigheaded not to see it.”

Celeste shifted uncomfortably on the hard stool. All her life she had tried to please her formidable father, to win his love with her cheerful banter and her singing, which everyone else said was sweet as a meadowlark’s on a May morning. Though it had never been spoken aloud, Celeste knew that she was far from the chevalier’s favorite daughter. “Papa has a great many things to attend to,” she murmured in his defense.

“Bah! Let it be said plainly now, for I do not know when we shall meet again on this earth. Your father wished for a son, and when you, the fifth daughter, arrived, he was angered like a small boy who has been denied a promised sweetmeat. It is a scandal the way he has treated you—sending you off to this godforsaken place to be wed to a stranger who probably can’t even speak passable French!”

Celeste stared into the candle’s flame, trying to conjure up the face of this unknown bridegroom. The picture of Lancelot in a book in her father’s library swam into her imagination.

“The Ormonds are a noble family,” Celeste whispered to the flickering point of light. “Walter will possess the qualities of a fine lord, I am sure.”

“Quit your woolgathering! ” Marguerite’s voice echoed around the tiny room. “This bridegroom of yours is not some pretty picture. He is a real man—and that is the nut and core of what I must tell you!”

Celeste widened her eyes. She was not sure she wanted to hear whatever caused her aunt’s distress.

“Do not alarm yourself so, dearest Aunt,” she murmured, though her own heart beat faster.

“Ah, ma petite, I had thought there would be more time to speak of this later—before your wedding day. I promised your dear mama...” She ran her tongue across her lips.

“More water?” Celeste offered, a flutter of panic tickling her throat. What on earth could it be that curbed her aunt’s usually tart tongue and sent such shivers of fright through Celeste?

“Non, more words. Tell me truly, has anyone spoken to you of what passes between a man and his wife after they are married?”

Celeste blinked at the surprising question. “Why, love passes between the two. With God’s blessing, it grows as the years go by.”

Marguerite passed her free hand across her forehead, as if to wipe away the thought. “Sweet little fool! You have filled your mind with too many troubadours’ posies. Nay, I speak of the wedding night, when a man and woman lie together in bed. Have any of your sisters spoken of it to you?” Her voice held a note of hope.

“Non. Why should they?”

Marguerite blew out a long sigh. “I was afraid of this. It is no good to cosset young girls under glass, like delicate damask roses, then pluck them rudely out of their loving homes and expect them to enjoy it!”

“Aunt Marguerite? What are you trying to tell me?”

The lady squared her shoulders and seemed to grow larger against the pillows. “’Tis this and none other, child. On your wedding night, your husband will strip the clothes from your back, examine you as one does a horse for sale, then he will...he will...”

Never had Celeste known her aunt to falter in the telling of anything. “He will what?”

“He will unlace his tights, open his codpiece, and thrust his man-root between your legs, into the most private part of your body!”

“Oh!” Celeste gasped as a hot flush rose into her cheeks. The scene painted by her aunt sounded appalling. “Surely this is a rude jest, Aunt. It is cruel of you to tease me so!”

Marguerite’s lips trembled. “It is not a jest, but the plain truth. And you must let him do it, for that is his husbandly right. And I must warn you further.” Now that she had breached her initial embarrassment, there was no stopping the torrent of words that poured from her mouth as if from a rainspout. “You will experience pain and blood.”

Celeste shuddered, and gripped Marguerite’s hand. “Must this thing happen? Could we not merely kiss and whisper sweet loving words, and hold each other in the night? I thought that was what happened betwixt a husband and wife. I’ve seen such behavior with my parents.”

Marguerite’s lips drew back into a sliver of a smile. “Oui, if you are fortunate with your husband. And these kisses and cooings and such like are the honey of the marriage bed, but this other, this coupling—that is the meat and drink.”

“Why?” None of the beautiful books in her father’s library showed such a thing. Lovers kissed in flower gardens, held hands, entwined their arms about each other and slept together like the best of friends. No one had ever seen Celeste naked except her maid—certainly no man, not even her little brother, Philippe. “It is not natural!”

The older woman gave a dry cackle. “It is the most natural thing in the world. And the why of it? For the begetting of children! How did you suppose they get a start? Do not look so moon-faced, Lissa. In time you will grow to crave it—if your husband is a skilled lover. Of course, he is English, and I have heard it said they are not the wisest in this matter. Fah! Your father! You should have been married to a Frenchman, rather then sent off to the arms of a barbarian! There now, I’ve said my piece.”

“Good Aunt, what am I to do?” Celeste bit her knuckles.

Marguerite snorted. “Close your eyes, lie still. . .and think of sweet, fat babies.”

Celeste spent a restless night, tossing on the narrow, straw-filled mattress. Finally, she fell into a dreamless sleep. When the lauds bell woke her to the sight of a misty dawn creeping through her narrow window, the frightening conversation of the night before seemed merely a fragment of a nightmare. Only the images evoked by the words naked, pain and blood remained sharp in her mind.

Perhaps Aunt Marguerite’s long-dead husband had been something of a beast, Celeste concluded as she hastily dressed herself in her burgundy travel gown. Besides, this day promised to be a fine sunny one, and her unknown bridegroom was miles away, in deepest Northumberland. She would confront the problem of the wedding night when the moment—and the man—were at hand. In the meantime, she had more pressing problems—such as learning to tie up her laces by herself, learning to wrap her tongue around the harsh sounds of the English language and, most of all, learning a good deal more about her new travel companion, Brother Guy.

For the few days she had been a guest at Saint Hugh’s, Celeste had spotted the brother with the celestial face only for brief moments. He always seemed to be rushing somewhere. Once she had tried to speak with him—to thank him for his help on the day of the accident—and he had literally picked up the hem of his robe and run into the dark chapel. His beautiful face had had the most amusing expression on it as he fled.

Another time, while practicing her lute in the cloister garden, she had thought she saw his tall figure hovering behind one of the pillars. When she looked up again, no one had been there. At least the adorable Jeremiah liked her music and had taken to sunning himself on the bench beside her while she played. She would miss the cat’s company when she left the priory.

Her final leave-taking of her beloved aunt was brief, and full of the usual admonishments.

“Watch your funds carefully, Lissa, and don’t let these peasants cheat you.”

“No, dearest Aunt.”

“Remember you are a lady at all times. And practice your English, as well as your singing.”

“Oui.”

“Do not drive poor Gaston to distraction. He has his hands full enough with those clod-brained men of his.”

Celeste suppressed a smile. She suspected Gaston was secretly relieved not be to traveling with “Madame Wasp-Tongue,” as she knew he called her aunt behind her back.

“Be sure to brush your hair a hundred strokes before bedtime every night—no skimping, mind you. Keep your teeth clean, chew mint leaves before entering company, and you must promise me to attend your prayers. No daydreaming about knights in shining armor.”

Celeste chuckled. “How can I avoid praying, dearest Marguerite? I will be watched over by a priest. No doubt he will have me saying my paternosters all the way to Snape Castle!”

Marguerite slapped her hand playfully. “Do not tease the good brother. I understand he is sworn to a vow of silence, so do not plague him with endless chatter. He has no defense against you.”

Celeste cocked her head. “Such an odd vow! How am I supposed to practice my English with a silent Englishman for company? La! I swear, I’ll take no such vow to accompany him! I will talk for the both of us.”