Silent Knight

by Tori Phillips

  “Aye,” Scullion nodded, then drained his pot of hot ale. “Ye make all the lasses skip to yer tune, m’lord.” He wiped both his mouth and his runny nose with the back of his hand.

  “That I do,” Walter agreed without humor. He splashed more ale into his cup from the large brown jug that warmed on the hob. “So where are these good men you promised me?”

  “They come, by an’ by,” replied his coarse companion.

  “When it suits them,” Walter snarled. “If they want to be paid, they’d best learn to hop when it suits me.” He drained his ale without pleasure.

  “’Doin’ the devil’s own work is ticklish business, m’lord,” Scullion pointed out in a mild tone. “Dark deeds need dark hours. They will come anon.”

  Walter slammed his empty cup on the table. “Taking a wife is no dark deed.”

  Scullion answered with a sharp laugh followed by a hiccup. “Aye, but takin’ another man’s wife, now that be right murky.”

  “The wench is mine by law.” Walter stifled the impulse to push his fist into Scullion’s greasy face. The dim voice of prudence reminded him that friends, even those bought with silver, were getting sparser for him.

  Walter knew that people called him Ormond’s spawn, and probably a good deal worse. Few wenches would lie with him any more, unless they were toothless hags, or even more pox-ridden than he. Every time he thought of the fresh young French bride coming to him, he salivated. The devil and his dam take his father! The girl—and her needed gold—were Walter’s.

  It seemed to Guy that since he’d wanted to delay the journey as much as possible, the bridal party had made even better time than before. By late afternoon, they arrived at the outskirts of Chester. From here, they would cross over the spine of the country and head north for York, the largest city outside of London. Guy found lodging at a small but reputable inn he knew, under the sign of the Blue Boar. Despite the building’s slightly shabby facade, Guy knew the innkeeper to be an honest, cheerful man. And one blessed with too good a memory, as Guy discovered when the travelers entered the taproom.

  “Welcome back, my lord!” A tiny, spare man, almost lost in the folds of his apron, bounced out from behind the counter. “Or is it Brother Monk now? Aye, by the look of you, I’d say it is. So you did go for the church, just as you told me you would last March—or was that April when you passed through here?”

  Barely pausing for reply or a breath, the innkeeper turned his hospitable charm on Celeste. “And I see you bring glad company to brighten my establishment. Welcome, welcome!”

  Celeste drew herself up as tall as possible and smiled prettily at the host of the Blue Boar. “Good evening, good man,” she began slowly in English. Her better pronunciation surprised Guy. Since she preferred to speak French to him, he had not heard how well her English had progressed thanks to the young Foxmores’ tutelage. Catching sight of his surprise, Celeste shot him a quick grin of triumph. “We ’ave much need of a room for the night.”

  The innkeeper made a small bow. “Right you are, my lady! And you’ve come to the finest hostelry in Chester. I am honored.” He looked around to Gaston and the other men, nodding and smiling all the while.

  No doubt our friendly landlord is sizing up the wealth of his customers. Taking out his slate, Guy questioned the fee. He hoped it hadn’t been raised since his last visit, on his way south to join the monastery. The innkeeper glanced quizzically at the slate.

  “Your pardon for asking, my lord, but has the cat got your tongue?” The little man chuckled at his own joke.

  “’E is without speech,” Celeste informed him.

  “Aye.” The innkeeper nodded as if that explained everything. “With your beauty, my lady, I can see why.”

  Celeste dimpled in reply and fluttered her lashes a bit. Guy wanted to shake her before she got too carried away by the man’s compliments. He wrote, Four shillings for all, dinner included? The price was more than fair, yet not ruinous to Celeste’s dwindling purse.

  The innkeeper nodded again. “Aye, and there you have it, my lord monk, my lady.” He ushered them toward the timeworn stairs ascending to the first-floor gallery. “I have the finest hostelry in Chester,” he bragged. “Table linens changed daily, and every traveler who lays his head upon my pillows is assured right well of clean sheets and no bedbugs.” He puffed himself up very proudly.

  “For the lady,” he intoned, opening the door to a small side room. The fading light through the dormer window revealed a plain bed, a table with pitcher and bowl, and a stool. “And your men can sleep in here.” He waved to the common room at the end of the hall, which held four cots, as well a larger table and stools before a small fireplace.

  The innkeeper glanced at Guy, then scratched his head. “Would Your Lordship prefer—” he began, but Guy cut him off with a quick hand motion.

  The monk had renounced the trappings of nobility when he donned the simple brown robe of the Franciscan order, and the innkeeper’s babbling about “Your Lordship” embarrassed him. Also, it would be better if Lissa thought that Guy was a poor man, and not the son of a Border lord. Guy pointed to the floor of the hallway just outside Celeste’s door.

  The host of the Blue Boar shook his head, a puzzled knot wrinkling his brow. “Aye, you may sleep there, if that is your pleasure, my lord.”

  ’Tis not my pleasure but my pain. I dare not name the place wherein I would rather sleep this night. Guy’s mouth went very dry, and he longed for a cooling draft of ale.

  The innkeeper turned again to Celeste, who stared, mouth agape, at the monk. Guy could see a question forming on those full pink lips of hers, and he didn’t want to answer it. Fortunately, the innkeeper rattled on, diverting her attention.

  “Now, my lady, twill be but a tick of the clock and I’ll have a fire for your comfort in yon room and a bite of supper. I’ll warrant you are famished. Hungry?” he added in a louder tone, speaking to her as if she were deaf. “What say you to a bit of beef, and new-laid eggs fried in sweet butter and garnished with parsley?”

  Smiling, Celeste nodded, which encouraged the landlord to greater heights of description.

  “Bread, both brown and white, so please you, my lady, and an apple tart, fresh-baked this morning by my good wife. You like apples?” He raised his voice again and spoke slowly.

  Celeste didn’t flinch under his well-meaning onslaught. “Oui, good man. I am ver-rey ...” She paused, struggling for the correct word. “I like apples ver-rey much. Merci.” she concluded, flushed with her latest triumph over the foreign English.

  “Good, good.” The landlord stood nodding and smiling at the pretty young woman. Guy finally gave him a little push and pointed down the stairs. “Aye, my lord monk, to be sure.” The little man backed up, teetering on the top step. “A fire and supper and water for washing. At once, and again, welcome to the Blue Boar.” With that, the innkeeper all but fell down the narrow staircase in his haste to serve them.

  “By the petticoat of Saint Catherine!” Gaston snorted as the clatter of the landlord’s thick shoes died away. “I pray that fellow is as long on his drafts of ale as he is on his talk. If we are fortunate, we shall have supper sometime before midnight.” He-handed Celeste the worn saddlebag containing the apostle spoons. “I think I will go down and hurry him along a bit, for I swear by the stars, I could eat a horse. Aye, even a horse roasted by an English cook.”

  Gaston, with Émile, Paul and René in tow, descended to the taproom, leaving Guy and Celeste alone together. Guy shifted his feet nervously. The narrow hallway seemed to close in about them.

  Celeste cocked her head, and a soft, sensual smile wreathed her lips. “Thinking of flying away again? So where will you run to now, my lord priest?” she asked, reverting to French in her rich brown-velvet voice. “It is most strange, I think, that you never want to be in my company.” Her violet eyes darkened to a deep purple. “Is it because my breath is sour? Non, I think not, for I chew mint leaves every day.”

  Guy tur
ned to go. With her standing so close to him, the musk of her rose scent invaded his defenses. He tried not to think how tempting her sweet mouth looked, or how the stray locks of her midnight hair beckoned his fingers to roam therein.

  Celeste blocked his exit down the stairs. “Oh, la, la! Have I suddenly turned into a dragon, Brother Guy? Do I frighten you? Boo!” She folded her arms over the saddlebag and stood her ground.

  Aye, Lissa, you scare up the very devil in me.

  Fixing a deep frown on his features, Guy pointed down the stairs. If he wanted to, he could sweep her off her feet as easily as he could a kitten, but he knew that once he held her slim waist in his hands, he would be loath to put her down again. He tried to shoulder his way around her, though he feared she might fall down the stairs.

  “I will let you go—for now.” Celeste grinned, a wicked look in her eye. “But only if you give me your solemn word of honor that I shall have the pleasure of your company after supper.”

  Guy’s eyes widened. What mischief did this minx have in mind? Her invitation echoed many others he had received when he played cupid’s fool at court. Surely she could not think of seducing him! And yet, for all her wit and professed honor, Celeste was still only a weak woman, and he, God help him, was losing his last shred of fortitude against her wiles. A cold wash at the well, that was what Guy needed this minute. That, and several hours on his knees, in deep meditation on his sins.

  She tapped her foot lightly on the scarred floor. “I am waiting for your promise, Brother Guy. I think the time has come for the reckoning due me.”

  What was Lissa talking about? What did he owe her but his sworn duty to deliver her into the hands of a fiend? That day of reckoning would come soon enough.

  “Your promise to meet me in the great room after supper, my lord monk, or you will have to push me down the stairs.”

  Don’t tempt me, fair Lissa.

  “Ma foi! You would think I have asked you to strip off your robe and dance naked under the moon!” Her eyes glowed.

  Haven’t you, sweet temptress?

  “Well, Brother Guy?”

  Clenching his teeth, Guy nodded his assent.

  “Très bien! I shall expect you then.” She stepped aside.

  As Guy brushed past her, she grabbed hold of his sleeve. “And do not think you can hide in the jakes all night. I have no shame, and that is the very first place I shall look for you.” She released his sleeve. “Best be warned, Sir Monk. I always get what I go after.”

  Guy took the rest of the stairs three at a time. Her smoky laughter followed after him.

  Chapter Thirteen

  True to his unspoken word, Guy appeared at the doorway of the common room shortly after the delicious supper promised and provided by the cheerful little host of the Blue Boar. Guy looked like a forbidding wraith, except for that bright golden halo of curls about his head. Pretending she hadn’t noticed him, Celeste fiddled with the skirts of her crimson velvet gown, its furred hem falling warmly over her thin house slippers. Crimson was her favorite color, and Celeste hoped her choice of gown would put Guy into an amenable frame of mind.

  Though Celeste tried to convince herself that she was doing the right thing, her fingers trembled a little as she pulled the small table closer to her and rearranged the items upon it—a candlestick with a new taper, a small jug of the landlord’s best wine, two cups and a fresh deck of cards. Celeste picked up the cards and began to shuffle them. The familiar feel of the smooth pasteboard sliding through her fingers put her a little more at ease. She loved card games. At home in L’Étoile, she was considered the family champion. Now she would see if she could use her skill to relax her glowering—and challenging—escort.

  It is only an innocent game or two of cards, not an assignation, she reasoned with herself. Then why was her heart skipping so erratically, and why had her breathing become more difficult the minute he stood at the door? It must be the stays of my bodice. I pulled them too tight when I dressed.

  Celeste smiled up at him with all the charm she could muster, despite the flock of butterflies fluttering in the pit of her stomach. “Good evening, Brother Guy. Please come in and sit down.” She indicated the stool opposite her. “Oh, la, la!” she continued lightly when she saw him hesitate. “Do you think I have asked you to hear my confession?”

  An expression of pure horror etched Guy’s face. Celeste suppressed her inclination to giggle. Instantly she decided that Brother Guy was not the one to hear her whispered transgressions.

  “But no, good monk. I have no great sin to confess—at least, not yet,” she couldn’t help but add with a mischievous tilt of her head. Poor Brother Guy was really such fun to tease. She reminded herself to be careful not to wound his vanity again, the way she had done when Guy took that unfortunate spill off Daisy’s back. She suspected that under his shapeless robe there beat the heart of a very proud man.

  “Please sit down. I promise not to bite.” She ruffled the cards again. Through her lowered lashes she watched him silently pad across the floor between them, like a wary kit fox who must be coaxed from its den with patience and food. Guy lowered his large frame onto the stool and eyed Celeste intently.

  Good. We have crossed the first bridge, she thought.

  Celeste continued to shuffle the deck. “I thought we might pass a pleasant evening together playing cards. I think you pray too much. The good Lord made us to play, as well as to pray, non?”

  Guy eyed the cards in her hand, and his frown deepened.

  “Ma foi! Such a face! Come now, Brother Guy, surely there is no harm in a game of cards? I know you have no money, so we will not gamble.”

  Guy’s eyes narrowed to icy slits as he looked from the cards to the wine. He made a move as if to rise.

  Celeste quickly placed her hand over his. The touch of his warm skin under her fingers sent her butterflies into full flight, knocking against the sides of her breast. When he turned his startled eyes upon her, she snatched back her hand as if it had been burned.

  “Please!” she murmured. “Stay with me a little while.”

  Celeste swallowed, trying to regain her composure and to erase the raw loneliness in her voice. She couldn’t let him know how much she craved company—his company—or he’d bolt like a hare and never come near her again.

  Guy wavered; his eyes, like a blue sky full of shifting clouds, mirrored a quick succession of emotions she couldn’t read.

  Celeste sat back, squared her shoulders and flashed him a winning smile—at least, she hoped he’d find it winning. It always worked on her mother. “What is a game of cards? Pah! Nothing but a chance to while away the tedious hours between supper and sleep. What am I to do? The light is too poor for reading or sewing.” She leaned forward and lowered her voice. “And to tell the truth—and as you are a man of God, I must tell you the truth—I sew very badly. I hope my new husband will not mind.”

  Guy looked away from her. Celeste had the feeling she was losing ground. “I cannot go to the taproom and sing songs and make jests, as Gaston and my men do. That would be unseemly for a lady. So, good Brother Guy, tell me. What am I to do?”

  Having fired her last arrow, Celeste held her breath. Very slowly, Guy turned his beautiful face toward her again. The ice in his eyes had melted, and they gazed at her with the color of a new-washed May morning. He pointed to the cards and nodded.

  Relief flooded Celeste. She had no idea how important this little game of cards had become until this moment. “Merci, Brother Guy. Consider this an act of sweet charity on your part. Besides, I do not recall that you took a vow not to play cards. Wine? The landlord has assured me it is a French vintage—but I think he would tell me anything I wanted to hear.”

  Guy’s lips twitched. Grasping the jug, he poured the ruby liquid into the cups.

  Celeste shuffled the deck again, though she knew it needed no further mixing. “Do you know the game of piquet? I believe the English call it cent, though why they call it that I do not know.
I find that the English take great pleasure in turning our beautiful French language into something horrible and not French at all. Have you ever heard how they pronounce the fine name of Beauchamps?” She made a wry face. “Beech-hem! Sacre! It is enough to make the stones weep—good French stones, that is!”

  Guy’s lips twitched again. He drank some of the wine.

  “So we play cent, oui?”

  Guy nodded. His eyes seem to blaze blue sparks in the candlelight. Celeste wondered if her imaginary butterflies would suddenly fly out of her mouth.

  She took a tentative sip of her wine and was pleasantly surprised to find it good. “Since you cannot speak out your points, let us keep score on your slate, oui?”

  In answer, Guy set his slate and a bit of chalk on the table.

  Celeste leaned across to him. “Now, good Brother, what shall we wager?”

  Guy frowned. Celeste quickly hurried on. Here was the nut and core of her plan—the main reason for the card game in the first place.

  “I speak of simple things, not money. For instance, if you win, what shall I have to do? Sing a song? Tell a story?”

  Guy shook his head. He folded his hands together, palm to palm.

  “Pray?” Celeste sighed. Of course he’d think of that! Wasn’t prayer his favorite occupation?

  The corner of Guy’s mouth wiggled. He shook his head. Holding out his folded hands, he slowly opened them, then pretended to read what was written on his palms.

  “Ah! I am to read you a story! Ma foi! I do not think my book of love is to your taste, Brother Guy.”

  He shook his head again. Then he continued to pantomime reading, even wetting his finger and turning an invisible page. At the end, he blessed himself.

  Celeste should have guessed his wager from the first. “You wish me to read from my book of hours?”

  Guy nodded, his face a mask.

  Celeste blew through her nose. She knew every prayer by heart in her book of devotions, and their routine repetition tended to lull her to sleep. She wondered if the good Lord got very tired of hearing everybody saying the same words to him over and over again. When she prayed, Celeste much preferred an informal chat with the Almighty.