Silent Knight

by Tori Phillips

“I heard a noise, Brother Guy,” she whispered.

  Pip looked around the open curtains. “Evil men downstairs, lady. We are going to escape out the window.” His voice shook with the excitement of the adventure.

  “Ç’est vrai!” she breathed. “It is true, then. I thought I was dreaming.” Gathering up the folds of her night shift, she climbed out of bed and began to don her petticoats.

  Shaking his head, Guy stopped her. She couldn’t waste valuable time dressing in all those clothes. Instead, he handed her the fur-lined cloak and her shoes. Celeste opened her mouth to protest, but stopped when she read the serious expression on his face. Without a word, she flung the cloak about her, then wiggled her feet into her stiff riding boots.

  “Come, my lady.” Gaston motioned to her from his place by the window. “It is as easy as jumping out of the pear tree at home.”

  “Wait! My spoons!” Celeste rushed back to the bed and pulled the saddlebag from under the mattress.

  Guy took the bag from her, then guided her toward the window. Celeste leaned out. For a split second, Guy expected her to balk at the prospect of jumping into the darkness.

  “’Tis only a little way down, lady,” Pip assured her. “Easy as cream for a cat.”

  Celeste smiled at him, then nodded. Gaston lifted her over the sill. “Look to the lady,” he whispered to the men waiting below.

  Just before she let go of the window frame, she glanced over her shoulder to Guy, her huge eyes seeking his assurance.

  I love you, Lissa. Lord forgive me, but I do. He smiled at her, willing his love to give her his strength. She returned his smile, then jumped.

  As Gaston made ready to follow her, Pip tugged at his sleeve. “Take me with you, sir. They’ll kill me sure if’n I stay here.”

  Gaston stared at the boy, then plucked him up and dropped him out the window. With a great deal of grunting and whispered curses, Gaston wedged himself through the opening. Guy heard his solid landing.

  Silently crossing the room, Guy pressed his ear against the door to the hallway. Muted snatches of a tavern ballad, sung off-key wafted up from the taproom. Good! No one had heard their escape. Taking a small piece of wood, he jammed it between the door and the frame. That would hold the kidnappers for a few extra minutes. Then he moved swiftly to the window.

  “Sacrebleu!” Gaston growled just below him. “Do not tarry, Monk!”

  Knowing his shoulders were the widest part of him, Guy angled his head through the opening. A protruding nail head in the wooden frame tore at his shoulder as he forced himself through the window. Though he disliked the thought of going headfirst, Guy saw no other way. As the rest of his body followed, he twisted so that his hands clutched the sill—in effect, somersaulting out the window. Once he hung upright, he let go, and was surprised when he dropped only a foot onto the flat roof of the store house. The snow on the roof lapped over his bare toes. He drew in his breath at the icy sting.

  In the yard below, light spilled from the taproom’s only window. Gaston pointed to the far end of the roof. Guy could just make out René waiting for them. Nearby, Celeste huddled next to Pip. Guy swept her up into his arms. The tightness around his lips relaxed into a slow smile as he looked down into her startled expression. He excused his vigilance over his tightly reined emotions, citing to himself the danger of the moment. When she returned his smile, a warm triumphant sensation filled him.

  “Allons,” Gaston whispered, tossing Pip over his shoulder like a sack of grain. “Let us go!”

  Crouching low, they ran along the roof. At the far end, they found their way made easier by a small shed that leaned against the storehouse. They leapt from one roof to the second and then to the ground, as if they were descending giant stepping-stones.

  By the time Guy reached the safety of the barn with his precious burden, the men-at-arms had already bound and gagged the ostler and were busy saddling the restless horses. Reluctantly Guy put Celeste back on her feet. His arm lingered around her for a moment longer than necessary before he turned his full attention to the problem at hand.

  Seeing Pierre about to hitch the horse to the wagon, Guy stopped him.

  “But my lady’s clothes! Her goods!” Pierre protested.

  Guy shook his head.

  Celeste put her hand on the driver’s arm. “We must leave the wagon, Pierre. Too noisy, n’est-ce pas, Brother Guy?”

  Surprised by the quickness of her mind and the absence of wailing over the imminent loss of her worldly possessions, Guy nodded to Pierre. Then Guy lifted a canvas bag that he knew held some of Celeste’s clothing. He motioned to Pierre to load up Daisy with the lesser bundles.

  “But what will you ride, Brother?” Pierre asked as he worked quickly, transferring the bags onto the donkey’s back. Daisy showed her supreme dissatisfaction at this midnight disturbance by flattening her ears and baring her teeth at Pierre.

  Guy pointed to one of the horses. The little chestnut mare would do much better than the skittish Daisy. Without another word, Celeste sifted through her belongings for what she could easily carry. As Guy turned away to search for a bridle for his new mount, he saw Celeste stuff her Book of Love into her saddlebag, alongside the apostle spoons. He couldn’t help but smile in the darkness. Her dreams meant more to Lissa than her damask tablecloth and napkins.

  In less than five minutes, the party were ready to make their escape from the inn. Holding Black Devil’s nose to keep him quiet, Gaston surveyed his little troop as if he were one of the famous French generals at the battle of Tournai.

  “Bon, my friends. We leave in single file, and we walk the horses across the yard. Understand? Brother Guy, you lead with my lady behind you. Pierre, you hold the reins of that miserable donkey, and if she so much as farts...”

  His teeth flashing in the dark, Pierre grinned his understanding.

  “You, Peep, go with Pierre on ’ees ’orse.” Gaston did not bother to ask Pip if he knew how to ride; nor did the boy enlighten him. Guy saw Pip cast a dubious look at the mount he would share with Pierre. The boy swallowed hard.

  “Jean, Paul, Dom and René, you follow after, and each take one of our enemies’ horses.” Gaston chuckled. “They will not go far without them. Flipot and Émile, what do you say we start a little fire in the storehouse after the others are safely away, eh? We make everyone nice and warm this night”

  Guy shook his head quickly. He didn’t want the local officers of the king’s justice to be after them. Gaston narrowed his eyes.

  “Pah, Brother Guy! What is a bit of horse-stealing and a small bonfire to me? I have very little soul left to save. Non, let me have my fun, eh? As for those bunch-backed nags of theirs, we can turn them loose in a mile or two. If they have wit enough, they will find their way back to their oats. Now, enough! Begone!”

  As he helped Celeste into her saddle, Guy said a quick prayer for Gaston’s nefarious enterprise. Leaning over, Celeste whispered, “Do not think poorly of Gaston, Brother Guy. I have not seen him so happy since we left France.”

  Guy leapt onto the mare’s broad back and gently kneed her into a slow walk. After the animal warmth of the stable, the cold night air greeted him with a shock. The trickiest part of this enterprise lay in maintaining silence as they passed by the taproom door. Guy again thanked the good Lord for a dark night and the muffling cover of snow.

  Glancing into the taproom as he passed, he saw the shapes of several men slumped over the table in front of the low-burning fire. Just then, another man stood. A spear of apprehension stabbed Guy’s chest. He watched as the cloaked figure crossed and stood in front of the fire, his back, mercifully, to the window. Guy signaled to the others, behind him, to hug the stable wall.

  As soon as they were safely out of the confines of the Hawk and Hound, Guy broke into an easy canter, hoping to put enough distance between themselves and their would-be pursuers before Gaston’s arson aroused the neighborhood. He hoped the old soldier, Émile and Flipot would be able to follow their tracks. Thou
gh the snow had stopped for the moment, Guy prayed for another snowfall before morning, or else there would be a hue and cry over the countryside for them. The landlord of the Hawk and Hound struck Guy as the type who would ride into hell to revenge a slight.

  Celeste urged her palfrey abreast of Guy. When he glanced her way, the corners of her mouth lifted a fraction in a mute salutation. Before he could respond in kind, he heard rapid hoofbeats thudding behind them. The men turned and drew their short swords. Leaning across to Celeste, Guy took her reins, ready to put their mounts to flight.

  “It’s Gaston!” announced Paul, speaking aloud for the first time since being awakened in the stable.

  Black Devil came to a skidding halt in front of Guy and Celeste. His rider threw back his head, and roared with laughter. “If you sniff the air, my lady, you will soon smell smoke. The storehouse was full of grain—very dry grain!” He jumped off his horse with an agility that far belied his years.

  The sound of Celeste’s laughter, like a bubbling brook on a summer’s day, caught Guy by surprise. He realized he had not heard her laugh like that for some time.

  “Oh, la, la, Brother Guy, I think we must find Gaston some more barns to burn, if it will keep him in such good temper.” She covered a yawn behind her hand.

  Gaston held out his reins to Guy. “Take my beauty — both of them, Brother. Lady Stubborn will not admit it, but I have eyes. I see her even now swaying in her saddle. My horse will hold you both again while I will ride your mare. At least, I will ride her until I find a sweeter one anon. Sacrebleu! Your pardon, my lady!” he finished with an unrepentant grin as he helped Celeste off her horse.

  What a lion Gaston must have been in his prime! Guy mutely applauded him.

  “Be quick, sluggard Monk,” the older man admonished. “My lady is half-asleep, and we must ride like the wind.”

  Guy shook himself, then slid off the mare’s back. He hated to admit that riding Black Devil again would be a great pleasure, and to ride with Celeste in his arms... He dared not contemplate that.

  Gaston hurled himself onto the mare, then waved to his men. “Scatter those shag-eared brutes and let us begone, my friends! By the beard of Beelzebub, it is a fine night to raise the devil. Let us quit this place!”

  Celeste nestled within the crook of Guy’s strong arm. He tucked the cloak tightly about her, drawing the hood over her free-flowing hair. Ma foi! Was he scandalized to see her without a ladylike coif? Guy’s fingers lifted the wind whipped strands of hair out of her eyes and smoothed them under the hood. When his knuckles gently brushed against her cheek, Celeste shivered with a new sensation. Though the biting wind chilled her, her skin burned where Guy had touched it.

  As Guy urged the huge black stallion into a mile-eating canter, Celeste relaxed against his broad chest, sinking into his cushioning embrace. In response, Guy’s arm tightened around her waist, holding her more secure. Guy’s heartbeat, which kept time with Devil’s plunging stride, imparted the calm assurance Celeste craved after the frightening events of the past hour.

  Celeste had never experienced such fear—not even on the horrible boat trip between Calais and Bristol. As the danger receded, fatigue descended upon her. Closing her eyes against the stinging wind, she burrowed deeper within the furs of her cloak and said a quick prayer of thanksgiving for Gaston’s audacity and Guy’s steadfastness. Lulled by the rhythm of the great stallion’s hooves and secure in the protection of her guardian angel, she fell into a dreamless sleep.

  From her relaxed weight against him and her even breathing, Guy realized that Celeste slept. Good. The ride to York would be long, especially when snow covered the ruts in the post road. At least they didn’t have to worry about the deuced wagon. Guy supported her slumbering head against his shoulder.

  Celeste’s hood slipped back, allowing Guy to explore her face in a manner he had not dared before. He marveled at how her black lashes fanned out over her silken cheeks. He took pleasure in admiring the high, exotic cheekbones in her delicate face. Her short, cold-tipped nose begged to be kissed. Guy gritted his teeth as a warm stirring grew within him. His gaze wandered down to the beckoning moistness of her full lush mouth.

  Guy ran his tongue across his lips. His throat constricted, making breathing difficult. His blood pounded in his veins, turning to liquid fire. His hand caressed the softly rounded curve of her hip. Her warm body, cradled in his palm, gave promise of sweet pleasures. His loins ached. Black Devil’s hooves beat a cadence through his fevered brain.

  Remember your vow.

  I am silent.

  Remember who you are.

  I am first a man.

  Remember what you have renounced.

  I am in agony.

  Remember you are a monk.

  Not yet.

  Celeste’s rose-petal lips, parted in sleep, turned upward to him. Without thinking, Guy dipped his head and, like a whisper in a lover’s ear, his lips softly brushed against hers.

  Celeste murmured in her sleep, then snuggled closer against him, turning her face toward his chest—where his heart raced like a whirligig in a storm. Guy snapped himself upright in the saddle, his lips burning as if a blazing ember had branded them. Great Jove! What have I done?

  He lifted his eyes to the starless heavens and thanked whatever saints might have seen his disgraceful behavior that Celeste had not awakened at that wonderful and awful moment of his weakness—and that she was not now aware of the throbbing hardness between his legs.

  Remember where you are going.

  I am in heaven and in hell.

  In the snow-filled gray of dawn, the exhausted, numbed and bedraggled party spied the soaring towers of York Minster ahead. Bowing his head over Celeste’s sleeping form, Guy promised strict penance for his wanton transgression. Despite his good intentions, he savored the sweetness he held in his embrace.

  Chapter Eighteen

  For the next few days, inclement weather forced the bridal party to remain in their pleasant accommodations at the Rose and Crown, a large inn located near the Micklegate of York. After the frightening experience of their narrow escape from brigands at the Hawk and Hound, Celeste and her men were more than happy to enjoy the hospitality of the landlord and to view the sights of the beautiful old city.

  Pip proved himself worthy of the new set of clothes that Celeste bought him by acting as her interpreter on shopping excursions whenever her growing English vocabulary failed her. The boy had a quick ear and an even quicker tongue. Within several days, Pip had learned to speak in short conversational French phrases. Gaston and the other men took a great deal of pleasure schooling Pip in the more colorful swear words—a skill the boy understandably did not practice in front of either his new mistress or Guy.

  Once the travelers had settled into their lodgings, the novice monk quickly removed himself to the great cathedral of York Minster. Pausing to eat only when his body felt faint, Guy spent the succeeding days before the high altar, praying and pondering what he should do.

  Guy knew that Snape Castle lay less than seventy miles to the north. Given a break in the weather and decent roads, they could be there in four or five days. Within a fortnight of her arrival, Lissa would be wedded to Walter Ormond. A sickening taste rose in his throat every time Guy recalled the journey’s goal.

  He tried to tell himself that his attraction to Celeste was merely lust, made more tantalizing by the fact that he hadn’t been near a woman for months. He reasoned that Lissa was no more beautiful, or charming, or seductive, than many other women of his experience, but that falsehood stuck in his craw.

  For months Lissa had struggled to get this far—traveling with a meager dowry, in a strange country whose language she barely spoke, to a cold, wet castle where she did not know a soul. There, with only a precious few in attendance and without any member of her family to comfort her, she was to be wed to a man she knew nothing about—thank God. Guy winced when he imagined her first meeting with Walter Ormond.

  Though
the money her father had given her for the trip was nearing its end, Lissa made sure all her men ate and slept as well as she. Given all the trials she had endured thus far, any other woman would have run for home. Not once had Celeste considered turning back. Time and again she had told Guy her family’s honor was at stake. To Lissa, honor was everything.

  Rising from where he had knelt for the past several hours, Guy stretched out the kinks in his calves. Then he slowly began to stroll around the side aisles, his head bowed in his meditations.

  “Brother!” intruded a mildly annoyed voice at his side. Startled, Guy looked up.

  A Grayfriar, slightly older than himself, fell into step with him. “You must have a great problem upon your mind, Brother, for I have been speaking to you for the last few minutes.”

  Guy lowered his gaze in a mute apology.

  “You are the silent Franciscan who travels with the French lady, are you not?” When Guy flashed him a surprised look, the Grayfriar chuckled softly. “York is a very small pond filled with large-mouthed fish. Here, news travels as fast as the plague. Rumor flies even faster.”

  The two men crossed the nave, genuflected together in front of the high altar, then continued their walk down the far aisle.

  “They say your lady is betrothed to the son of Sir Roger Ormond of Snape Castle. Is that true?”

  Guy’s lips tightened into a thin line. He nodded. It pained him to hear Lissa’s fate spoken aloud, especially by one who did not know her.

  The Grayfriar paused and placed a hand on Guy’s sleeve. Concern colored his open countenance.

  “Did you know that Sir Roger’s wife died of the sweating sickness a month ago?”

  Guy shook his head and made the sign of the cross for the soul of the late Lady Ormond. The Grayfriar followed suit.

  “Sir Roger suffered a greater loss. His second son, as well as his only daughter, died within hours of their mother.” The Grayfriar moved closer to Guy and continued in a low whisper. “Furthermore, they say Walter Ormond—your lady’s intended—is riddled with the pox. They say he will not last out the year.”