Tori Phillips (12 page)

Guy wiped the slate clean with the back of his sleeve, then wrote again.

“‘Ladies do not say rabbit sucker or pinch-spotted, or anything else they may hear at an inn,”’ she read aloud. Celeste digested this instruction for a moment, then smiled beatifically at him. “
Très bien,
Bro
ther
Guy. You can write in complete sentences.”

Flicking her crop, she spurred her horse ahead of him. Her low golden laughter drifted back over her shoulder.

That evening they crossed a stone bridge that arched over the Severn River and entered the bustling town of Shrewsbury. Within the protective city walls, the majestic stone spire belonging to Saint Mary’s Church, built in the twelfth century, attempted to pierce the gathering gloom, made darker by the heavy gray clouds that had accompanied the bridal party all day. Their horses’ hooves echoed down the cobbles of Grope Lane, where high black-and-white half-timbered houses leaned companionably over the street toward each other, like whispering gossips around a cider bowl.

The weary travelers gratefully accepted the hospitality of the convent that sat hard by Saint Mary’s walls.
At least Celeste won’t pick up any more foul language here.
Guy allowed himself a small smile of satisfaction as he rubbed Daisy down before offering her a bucket of oats.

Instead, the tall abbess had a great many words to say to Guy in the privacy of her spare office.

“I am thunderstruck!” She rattled the thick rosary beads that hung from her waist. “A scandal, to be sure! What could have the chevalier of Fauconbourg been thinking, to let such a beautiful young daughter go off to England without a proper chaperon?”

Her aunt was injured in an accident,
Guy wrote on his slate.

The abbess crossed herself in a prayerful attitude before continuing. “Still, that is no excuse!” she snapped.

Guy swallowed his anger.
I am in charge of the lady’s honor.
Pressing down too hard on his chalk, he accidentally broke it into two pieces. The old she-dragon!

The abbess pursed her lips as she appraised the tall monk. “You are far too young for such a duty,” she continued waspishly. “And too handsome for your own good, as well. I trust you remember your vows. Poverty, obedience — and
chastity.
” She practically spat out the last word at him.

Guy drew himself up to his fullest height. No wonder this woman was in a convent! She would have made a merry hell for any man witless enough to wed her.

I must attend to my prayers,
he scribbled across the slate.

The abbess rattled her beads again, coughed, then blew her nose before answering. “Aye, a wise idea. And I shall pray for the Lady Celeste, that she may not fall among wolves ’ere she reach her waiting husband.”

With a curt nod, Guy turned to go.

“Your blessing, Father?”

Even as she knelt at his feet, the abbess’s chin jutted out in silent disapproval. Guy wondered if her request was purely pious or an unvoiced challenge to his authority. After quickly tracing the sign of the cross in the air in front of her, he sought sanctuary within the dim church.

Jesu! What if the abbess asked him to say mass on the morrow? He would have to explain that he was not ordained. Then what? Would she permit Celeste to continue in his company? Or would she lock Lissa inside the convent and send him back to Saint Hugh’s with a large flea in his ear? The abbess looked exactly the type of shrew who would do just that. Faced with this possibility, Guy realized how very much he wanted to see this journey to its conclusion.

’Tis my charge on my honor
. Guy prayed before the tabernacle on the altar, as its rich gilding reflected the light from a solitary candle.
Lissa is safer in my care than with all the chaperons in the world. I would protect her with my life.
It took a moment for him to realize he was shaking.

“Gaston, have you seen Brother Guy?”

Celeste looked down the table in the convent guest house. The men had almost finished their meal of roasted capons, fresh-baked bread and dairy butter, rabbit stewed with onions, sharp cheddar and baked apples in a pastry cover. Both ale and a middling red wine rounded out the meal. Though the convent’s food was plain, it filled everyone to satisfaction.

Gaston scraped the last morsel of baked apple from the bowl, then wiped his mouth on his sleeve, before answering. “I saw him in conversation with the mother abbess. Then he went into the church.”

Celeste regarded a wedge of the savory cheese that Gaston politely placed on her wooden plate. She wondered if she ought to wrap up some of the food for the missing monk before the dishes were cleared from the board.

“Again he does not eat!” she sputtered. “And when he does, it is only a crust of bread, a cup of water or a piece of uncooked fruit.”

“He is a man of God,” Gaston observed mildly. “And this is one of God’s houses. He is doing what he supposed to do — he prays.” He took a deep swallow of his ale.

“Fah!” Celeste stabbed the inoffensive cheese with her small eating knife. “He is
not
doing what he is supposed to do at all.”

“Oh?” Gaston cocked one bushy brow at her. “Then permit me to ask what he should be doing?”

Celeste played with a gold ring on her finger. “He should be here with us, eating this good supper. He needs his strength.”

“
D’accord,”
Gaston murmured into the depths of his tankard. “I agree, but what does one do? Do I tie him up and feed him like an invalid?” He shrugged the thought away. “I do not think the good brother would like that. And I do not think I am the man to try it.”

“He will be sick if he does not eat.
Ma foi!
He is such a big man. He needs a lot of food.” Pulling off her napkin as she spoke, Celeste laid the cloth out on the table and began to pile bread, cheese and the remains of a capon in the middle of it.

“A midnight supper, my lady?” Gaston jested.

“
Oui.
” She tied the ends together. “For one who keeps too many late hours as it is.”

Gaston caught her wrist as she turned to go. “Remember, my lady — Brother Guy has dedicated his life to the church.”

Celeste did not like the sergeant’s stern look, or what his words implied. She tossed her head back proudly. “And I do not forget that I am all but married, either.”

She slammed the door behind her.

Across the garden, she could make out the side door leading into Saint Mary’s. Clutching her bag of food, Celeste glided down the stone corridor of the cloister.

The large interior of the church reminded Celeste of the pictures of a cave that she had seen in one of her father’s books. Tall stone pillars receded into darkness as they stretched toward the arched roof. The chill air held a faint scent of candle wax, dust, mold and lingering incense. Celeste waited a moment while her eyes adjusted to the darkness. She spied Brother Guy’s spear-straight form in front of the rood screen. Even when kneeling, he looked tall.

Celeste quickly traversed the aisle, then dropped down beside him. The uneven stone paving bit into her knees through her many layers of petticoats and gowns. She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye.

If he knew she was beside him, Guy gave no indication, but merely continued to stare at the altar as if mesmerized by its flickering candle. Celeste bowed her head, though not in prayer. She hated to disturb Guy when he was so obviously deep in his devotions. Yet, what was she to do with her gift of food, especially since its various contents emitted a pleasing, though strong, odor? Hesitantly she put it on the floor in front of her, then made the sign of the cross.

Memorized prayers sprang to her lips without prompting, though her eyes were anywhere but on the altar. She shifted on the uncomfortable flooring, landing directly on a particularly sharp stone. She muffled her gasp of pain, then cast Guy another sidelong look.

He neither moved nor blinked.

Celeste considered pretending a faint, just to see what he would do, but she could almost hear Aunt Marguerite’s voice telling her not to act like such a silly goose. A pale white spider caught her eye. Fascinated, she watched it walk up Guy’s gown, its legs moving one at a time. When it reached the end of his sleeve, it wavered for a moment, then disappeared inside.

Holding her breath, Celeste waited for Guy to come alive and shake the thing out. Nothing happened.

Growing more alarmed, Celeste stared directly at him. Was he in a trance? Would he fall to the floor in convulsions any minute? Should she run for help?

“Brother Guy?” she whispered, tentatively touching his robe.

Without shifting his gaze from the altar, he slowly raised one hand and put his finger to his lips. Then he returned to the attitude of prayer.

Celeste blinked. How could he concentrate like that? Never had she seen anyone so single-minded in his devotions. At L’Étoile, a perpetual hum of twitching, scratching, coughing, sneezing and whispering accompanied the daily mass. Even Père Jean-Baptiste made unholy noises at inappropriate times, and she knew for a fact that the old man couldn’t stay on his knees for more than five minutes.

Celeste stared down at her hands, twined her fingers together and tried to meditate on matters spiritual.

Impossible!
Though both the air and the stones under her knees were cold, Guy seemed to radiate his own heat, which spilled over onto her. His striking hair formed a golden halo about his head, giving him the appearance of a divine creature not of this world. His hands, with those long fingers, were folded in peaceful prayer. By the dim light, Celeste noted their strength. She recalled his touch from the other night. How easily he had lifted her from the floor of the bedroom. How gently he had held her, and how disappointed she had been when he set her aside.

Celeste squeezed her eyes shut.
Mon Dieu, forgive me
!
He is yours—not mine.

Gathering her skirts, she pulled herself to her feet. Her knees stung where they had borne her weight. She tugged at Guy’s sleeve.

“Supper!” she hissed. Turning on her heel, she marched stiffly down the aisle. She deliberately let the side door bang loudly behind her.

Lifting her skirts scandalously above her ankles, Celeste raced down the cloister walkway until she reached the solitude of the tiny room assigned to her for the night. There she pressed the single pillow to her mouth, not caring that the small cushion was stuffed full of straw. It muffled the sobs that rose unbidden from her throat.

Guy released a long breath and flexed his shoulder muscles. Then he shook the wandering insect from the depths of his clothing. If Lissa had said anything else, or stayed next to him for one more minute... He let the thought pass unfinished. He felt exhausted from the labor of controlling his temptations. Glancing down at the bundle on the paving stones, he felt his empty stomach rumble with anticipation. He smiled in the dark.

Surely the good Lord didn’t want this particular offering left on his doorstep. Nor did Guy seriously think the Divine Master would object if his servant disposed of it in an appropriate manner. After all, Guy reasoned as he picked up the bulging packet, one should never reject an act of charity, and wastefulness was indeed a sin.

After a final “Amen,” Guy let himself out the side door. As he spread his feast on a stone bench in the cloister garden, he could have sworn he heard Father Jocelyn whispering, “God works in strange and mysterious ways, my son.”

Chapter Ten

A
fter hearing mass said by the resident priest — which relieved Guy’s midnight anxieties — the travelers left Shrewsbury as a wet gray dawn rose over the walls of the castle. The abbess had said nothing more to Guy about Celeste’s escort, and he was glad to see the town sink into miniature behind them.

“Achoo!”

Hearing Celeste sneeze for the twelfth time, Guy tugged on Daisy’s reins, finally bringing the stubborn animal to a halt. He waited for the girl to draw alongside of him.

“
Ma foi!
” She said by way of greeting, shaking out her handkerchief. “This wretched cold and damp! I think you will not sing at my wedding, Brother Guy, but at my funeral.” She dimpled at the thought. “But I forget, you will not sing at all, Brother Guy, will you? You will stand silently by like a great stone angel with your wings folded and your head bowed.
Quel dommage!
Though in truth, I have never seen an angel quite so tall as you. Then again, I have never seen an angel at all.” Another loud sneeze cut off any further observations.

Guy frowned at the sound. Lissa’s eyes looked as red and runny as her nose. Yet she made no complaint of her ill health. God’s teeth! Every other woman he had known, including his own mother, took to her bed at the slightest sign of indisposition — or even the pretext of one. Yet this delicate French flower, unused to the harsher English weather, continued on, when it was evident she was unwell.

How fare you?
he wrote on his slate, then held it out for her to read. The light rain that had accompanied them since they left the convent softened the chalk letters into a smudge.

Celeste waved her handkerchief like a lace-and-linen flag. “It is naught but a stuffiness in my head.” She leaned forward and confided to Guy, “In truth, it is a blessing, for my men are in much need of a change of clothing, and now I do not have to smell them,
oui?”
She sneezed again.

Guy’s frown deepened. Lissa might jest about her funeral, but its possibility was all too real in his mind’s eye. They had to stop somewhere for a few days, to give her a chance to recover her health. The weather would grow worse as they went farther north.

“Ah, Bro
ther
Guy! Do not frown so! My aunt Marguerite used to tell my little brother that if he made wicked faces God would make them permanent. You might try a little smile,
oui?”

Guy bit the inside of his cheek, to keep from complying with her request. He was in no mood to banter. He must find shelter, and soon. He kicked Daisy into a jarring trot. Celeste’s next sneeze followed behind him.