Silent Knight

“Lissa! Mind what I said—”

Brother Cuthbert’s arrival cut short all further instructions. The monk reported that Gaston and his men waited for the Lady Celeste by the lych-gate.

“I shall pray daily for your speedy recovery, dearest Aunt.” Celeste took her aunt’s hands in both of hers. The moment of parting had arrived, and she felt woefully unprepared for it. She wanted to say something memorable, something loving, but the words hung back like shy choirboys.

“Adieu, my heart.” Marguerite lifted her face for a last kiss. “I shall hold you in my thoughts, and pray they keep you safe in this miserable country.” She returned Celeste’s kisses on both cheeks, then gave herself a little shake. “You, Brother Cuthbert! I have a bone or two to pick with you. First, let us discuss your wine cellar.”

Celeste grinned as she slipped out the door, leaving the poor monk to his own defenses. At least Aunt Marguerite had not again mentioned that awful idea of the wedding night. Perhaps it had merely been rambling talk brought on by one of Brother Cuthbert’s potions for pain. After receiving a blessing from Father Jocelyn and giving Jeremiah a final hug and a kiss, Celeste skipped out to the lych-gate where Gaston waited to hand her up onto her dappled gray palfrey.

An unabashed giggle bubbled up from her throat when she caught sight of Brother Guy. His loose brown robe hiked up to his thighs, he sat astride a meek-looking little donkey. His long bare legs dangled on either side, almost touching the ground. A thunderous expression clouded the brother’s angelic face. When he heard her inadvertent laughter, he stared up at the blue-washed skies and appeared to be already deep in prayer.

Celeste rolled her eyes in silent exasperation at Gaston. Oh, la, la! This adventure would not turn into a somber, psalm-singing journey—not if she could help it.

Chapter Four

How long had it been since he had last ridden beyond the walls of Saint Hugh’s? As the little party crested the hill, Guy looked back over his shoulder at the squat priory buildings. Bluebells had dotted the fields with splashes of spring color when he first came down this road, going in the opposite direction. He recalled that his heart had been as light as the April breezes that ruffled his hair. Now a cold north wind blew across the bare patch of his novice’s tonsure. He had not expected to leave Saint Hugh’s until that distant day when God called him to his final rest and his fellow monks carried his shrouded body out the lych-gate for burial.

A small, traitorous emotion fluttered within his breast as he inhaled the autumn’s earthy smells and the scent of a peasant’s woodsmoke. With a pang of guilt, Guy shook off the sudden pleasure he took in savoring the crisp air, the clean open sky, the harvested fields rolling to the horizon—and the disturbing company of the young lady who insisted upon riding beside him.

He cast Lady Celeste a surreptitious glance out of the corner of his eye and discovered with a sharp jolt that she examined him with an equal keenness.

“Bonjour, mon frère!” she sang in a lilting voice. Her deep purple eyes sparkled as amethyst crystals in a sunbeam. “I mean...” She paused for a moment, her delicate dark brows furrowed with some inner struggle. “Goo morrning, Broozer Guy.” She drew out the English syllables, then cocked her head, reminding him of a clever robin waiting for a bounty of bread crumbs. “Well? Did I not say it correctly?” she asked in French.

Guy blinked. Was she expecting him to give her English lessons? By the look on that lovely young face, he realized that she did. Hadn’t anyone told her about his vow?

She sighed with an uniquely French eloquence. “La, Brother Guy! You need only nod or to shake your head at my pronunciation. Is that too hard for you? It is a little nod, like this.” She demonstrated, with a sly grin turning up the corners of her full mouth. “Or a mere shake, like so.” She moved her head slowly from side to side, her gaze never leaving his face. “Goo morrning, Broozer Guy,” she repeated.

He blew out his cheeks. They were scarcely a mile from the haven of Saint Hugh’s, and already the little witch tempted him. Guy considered the long road ahead of them. Three hundred miles to Snape Castle, by his reckoning. He groaned inwardly.

“Hey-ho, Broozer Guy!” Her words, like warm raindrops, pattered through his musings.

No peace! He shot her his haughtiest look and shook his head. Her smile disappeared, and he was instantly sorry for its loss. She looked as if he had just struck her. Lesson one: Lady Celeste did not take criticism well.

“Was it the good-morning or your name that was not well-done?” she asked in French, with a toss of her head. The accompanying breeze lifted her veil, revealing the wealth of blue-black hair beneath.

Guy sighed again. Her prattle would drive him witless before Shrewsbury. At least her voice was pleasant on the ear.

“Goo morning,” she repeated with a determined glare.

Guy inclined his head slightly. Perhaps she would take her small victory and reward him with blessed silence.

“Bon!” Celeste clapped her hands. “Broozer Guy?” she continued.

Guy shuddered and shook his head. Unhooking his slate from his belt, he let go of Daisy’s reins long enough to print out Brother on it, underlining the th. He held out the slate for her perusal.

“Bro—” The pink tip of her tongue appeared enticingly between her white teeth.

Guy looked away quickly, though he could still see its wetness in his mind’s eye as he listened to her draw out the th for an eternity.

“Bro-th-er, oui?” She finally released the poor word from her mouth.

Guy nodded, then nudged Daisy’s belly with his bare knee. Perhaps the English lesson, which showed every promise of lasting until hell froze over, would be terminated if she saw only his back. He squared his shoulders as he moved ahead of her. Better this way. He didn’t have to look at her, to see those mysterious purple eyes full of secrets, the blush of a midsummer’s rose on her cheeks, or the curve of those luscious, full lips, which—

Guy ground his teeth together. Great Jove! From where had those secular thoughts sprung? He must not permit them to intrude again. He had renounced all cravings of his body six months ago.

A small sound behind him pricked his attention: a pent-up burst of air, followed by several others in quick succession. Was she crying? Had he offended her by riding ahead so abruptly? Churl! He glanced over his shoulder to apologize and saw that Celeste had covered her mouth with one gloved hand. Hearing her suppressed giggles, he realized that he was the source of her mirth. At that moment, a throaty laugh escaped her.

“Your pardon, Brother Guy, but it is too amusing!” She laughed again. Some of the men-at-arms nearby grinned at the contagious sound. “Your poor, poor little donkey! It is very hard to tell if she has four legs—or six! In truth, good Brother, you could walk all the way to Northumberland and still be sitting astride!” Full-blown gales of laughter punctuated this last remark. The escort joined in her mirth.

Guy scowled. Had the chit no respect for a man of the church, that she would laugh at his humble means of transportation? He looked down at Daisy’s neck, with its rough ridge of a mane. Memories of Moonglow, his gray war-horse, rose in his mind. If this minx of a girl had but seen him astride that noble steed, she would never have laughed at him. Nay, she would have been frightened half to death. Smiling at the thought, he kneed Daisy into a faster walk. The donkey, a devil despite her meek facade, blew a loud, wet snort of protest through her nostrils.

“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.

“Brother 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.