Silent Knight

“That will take me hours to say!”

He fervently hoped so—perhaps even until suppertime.

Celeste lost count somewhere past the thirty-seventh Ave. Fah! The late afternoon was too lovely to spend with one’s head bowed over the neck of a horse. Rolling her shoulders back to ease the tension in her muscles, Celeste shifted in her saddle and gazed at the road in front of her—and at a pair of wide shoulders clothed in a coarse brown woolen habit.

How very big Brother Guy was! Celeste grinned as she enjoyed the sight of his well-proportioned calves, which gripped the donkey’s sides. She wondered if the monk could run very fast, especially in that cumbersome robe. What would he think if she challenged him to a race? At L’Étoile, Celeste had always beaten her sisters whenever they managed to avoid the disapproving eye of Aunt Marguerite and ran down the long, grassy allée in the garden. Her gaze traveled up his back and rested on the tan bald patch of his tonsure. What would Brother Guy look like if all his hair grew back in? Such a golden color! She sighed.

Was his hair soft or rough to the touch? It looked soft as a baby’s, but his body proclaimed him a man. She shook herself and said another Ave Maria quickly. She wondered if it was wrong to stare at a monk’s body that way.

Such broad shoulders! Did his mother have to make his shirts extrawide, so that the sleeves would not rip out when he practiced with his sword? Surely he must have used a sword at some time in his life—before he became a man of God. His accent and his noble bearing suggested that he came from a good family, and it was no sin to know how to use arms. Saint Michael was a warrior, as well as an angel. What would Brother Guy look like in a suit of armor such as the one worn by the hero of her dreams, the Knight of the Loyal Heart? Celeste could easily imagine Brother Guy wearing the winged heart on his helm.

Thinking of her favorite book reminded Celeste of the troubadour songs. It seemed like a month of Sundays since she had last heard those sweet tunes. She caught herself saying the next prayer while humming “The True Heart’s Lament.” How well the Latin words fit with the simple melody! She hummed another Ave, slightly louder.

Over his shoulder, Brother Guy scowled at her.

Zut alors! Didn’t that man ever smile? Such a pity! He had such a handsome face. Perhaps he was out of practice. Maybe smiling was forbidden in the monastery. No matter. They would be together on the road for many days to come. Celeste knew she could get him to smile at her eventually. People always did. She cocked her head and grinned at him as she continued to hum.

The monk put a long finger to his lips.

Celeste resisted the urge to stick her tongue out at him. What a sobersides!

“I am saying my penance,” she told him in an innocent tone of voice.

Frowning, Brother Guy shook his head. He put his finger to his lips again.

“Bah! You did not say anything about the method of my prayers, Brother Guy.” She deliberately blew the difficult th sound out of her mouth. “Do you not chant your own prayers—that is, when you are permitted to speak?”

Guy’s finely arched eyebrows rose slowly up his wide forehead.

“Just so,” Celeste continued, sensing she had made a point. “You chant and I hum. Now, I have not heard the quality of your voice, so I do not know if your chanting offends the ear of the Divine or not, but—”

He scowled again. Celeste wondered if that was a good or bad sign. She plunged on with her logic.

“But I have been told on excellent authority that I possess a sweet singing voice. I would not say this of myself, you understand, but only because others—”

The monk waved his hand at her, signaling the end of his attention. Gathering that she had been granted permission to continue her unusual mode of prayer, Celeste cleared her throat.

“Ave Maria, gratia plena,” she sang, to the tune of “Lancelot and Guinevere.” As Guy turned away, Celeste thought she spied the hint of a grin hover around his lips and a softer look steal into his blue eyes.

“Sancta Maria. ” She let her voice lift to the heavens, her spirit in tune with the sweet melody.

I shall capture your elusive smile yet, Brother Guy! Just watch me!

Chapter Six

The slanting rays of the setting sun softened the red sandstone walls of the massive castle above the town of Ludlow as Guy led the weary bridal party across the Ludford Bridge. Halfway up the steep slope of Broad Street, he turned Daisy into the yard of one of the town’s more reputable inns, the Feathers. The fresh-painted sign proudly displayed a trio of white plumes, the badge of the Prince of Wales, in honor of the last Plantagenet heir to the throne, the ill-fated King Edward V, who had lived in Ludlow before returning to London, where he had met his mysterious end in the Tower.

Now the Tudors ruled England, after a century of civil unrest. Guy wondered if the news of King Henry’s obsessive infatuation with Anne Boleyn had reached the ears of this hamlet, so far from the intrigues of Westminster. How would this landlord react if he knew that Henry’s lawful queen, Catherine, was ignored and virtually banished from the court? Being a prudent man with an obviously thriving hostelry, the innkeeper would probably only shrug.

After stepping off Daisy’s back, Guy turned toward Celeste to help her down from her saddle, but slowed his steps before he reached her. That service was Gaston’s by right. He watched Gaston place both hands around Celeste’s slim waist and lift her easily from her palfrey. Sweet Saint Anne! The girl must weigh less than thistledown. A green worm of envy wriggled through Guy. He pushed away the insidious emotion, reminding himself that she was merely his charge. He had already dedicated his heart to a higher calling.

“Thank the guardian angels the monk knew of a good rest house,” muttered Gaston, handing Celeste her saddlebag. His gaze swept around the washed-down cobbled yard. “This is the best lodging I’ve seen in a fortnight.”

Celeste studied the wide half-timbered facade, with its many gabled windows jutting out from under the slate roof “Oui.” She chewed her lower lip. “But who will speak to the innkeeper, now that Aunt Marguerite is no longer with us?”

She broke into a smile when she spotted Guy, standing by Starlight’s head. “Ah, Brother Guy! Will you use your slate and tell the innkeeper what we require for the night?” She looked relieved at the idea.

In answer, Guy took out his slate and quickly wrote upon it. He passed his message to Celeste,

Probably can’t read, spelled the blurry chalk letters.

Her eyes darkened into twin purple storm clouds. “But if the innkeeper is unlettered, who will speak to him?”

She looked adorable, standing in the middle of the bustling yard, clutching her worn leather bag with such a perplexed look on her upturned face. Guy almost smiled at her, but caught himself in time. Hardening his features, he gravely pointed to her.

“Moi?” she squeaked, her eyes widening at the prospect. “But my English is so... so barbaric.”

Guy wiped the slate with his sleeve, then wrote Good practice for you.

“Fah!” she snorted. Guy remained unmoved. “well, if it is to be, then let us confront this English lion in his den. At least, it looks to be a clean den.” Turning on her heel, she marched smartly to the door of the taproom, with Guy and Gaston following close behind.

“Such fire, that little one!” Gaston chuckled. “Let us hope her new husband is not a milksop, or she will reduce him to pudding.”

Guy gnashed his teeth at the thought. Walter Ormond was no whey-faced boy. Nor would he be ruled by anyone—certainly not a sweet maid with a poor command of the English language. Guy reminded himself once again that her future married life was none of his concern. Why not? that annoying little voice asked him as he pushed his way through the door of the boisterous Feathers.

Unerringly, Celeste singled out the master of the establishment. “Pardon, monsieur.” Taking a deep breath before continuing, she ran her tongue over her lips, which immediately gained her the innkeeper’s appreciative attention.

“We want room for the night, yes?” Celeste smiled coquettishly at the ruddy-faced man and fluttered her lashes.

Hooding his eyes, Guy observed her. The little vixen might be young, but she knew enough tricks to befuddle a man’s wits.

The innkeeper appraised her with a shrewd glance. “Frenchies, by the look of ye.”

Celeste drew herself up to her full height, which put her at chin level with the man. “Oui, but we pay in the English silver.” She flashed him a brilliant smile, then nodded toward Guy. “And the goood brother ’ere is English and understands all you say.”

Stepping forward at this introduction, Guy loomed over the host. Taking in the monk’s height and shoulder width, the innkeeper stepped back a pace.

“Begging yer pardon, Friar, but we had a wee bit o’ trouble with the frogs afore, and a man can’t be too trust in’ with any o’ that lot.”

Before Guy could react, Celeste erupted with a sputter of French, followed by an equal torrent of English. “Frog? Mon Dieu! ’E says I am the frog?” A delightful blush of pink crept into her cheeks. “Bah! Imbécile! Am I green? Do I ’ave the face of the frog? Look you!”

Lifting the hem of her gown, she displayed a slim ankle and the lower portion of a shapely calf, encased in a bright yellow silk stocking. “Is this the leg of a frog?”

The landlord whistled through his gapped teeth at the unexpected sight, while the nearby patrons of the taproom craned their necks for a better view. Glowering, Gaston tugged at her hand.

“Lady Celeste! Drop your skirt!,” he muttered in rapid French. “What do you want these pigs to think you area woman of no reputation? Marguerite de la Columbiaire would have my brains served for a dog’s breakfast if she knew what you were doing.”

“My aunt will never know, Gaston,” Celeste whispered back to him, though she immediately let go of the velvet burgundy skirts.