Tori Phillips (33 page)

Above each tent flew a banner emblazoned with the owner’s coat of arms. Though lions, bears, roses, cockleshells, greyhounds and French lilies filled the pewter gray sky in profusion, none of them bore the device she yearned to see—the red heart with golden wings of the Knight of the Loyal Heart.

“Sacrebleu!”
Gaston rumbled beside her. “I have not seen such a display in a long time.” His eyes twinkled with the excitement of a man half his age. “Lord Ormond will be out of pocket for a good time to come.”

Celeste sighed and leaned her head against the stone window frame. “I am much amazed that the English would sooner give five or six ducats to provide an entertainment for a person than a groat to assist him in any distress.”

Gaston cocked his head, an inquiring look on his weathered features. “How now, my lady? You are the one who wanted this tournament,
n’est-ce pas?”

She nodded, though she did not meet his eyes.
“Oui.”
She sighed again.

“Perhaps not enough company has come? Pah! There are over a dozen nobles of worthy rank here to do you honor in the lists.”

“Oui,
” she agreed, staring out again at the colorful flags. “It looks very grand.”

“But?” The old soldier gently prodded her. When Celeste finally met his gaze, she saw him laughing at her.

“I was expecting...” She stopped. How could she explain to Gaston what she had hoped to see? He would be even more amused, or he would be angry at her hopes of delivery from the marriage her father had arranged.

Gaston chuckled. “Expecting what, my lady? That one of your knights would leap out of the pages of your book and come to joust for you?”

Celeste swallowed hard. Gaston was far too astute. She must be very careful not to betray her hopes for that very thing.
“Oui,
Gaston.” She fixed a false smile on her face. “And I would like a dragon or two, preferably breathing fire. If we could tame one, he would do very well in the main fireplace. Please excuse me. I must see to my lord’s guests.” Ducking his mirth, she hastened to lose herself in the crowd of colorful swirling velvets, brocades, jewels and fur.

To Sir Guy Cavendish at Snape Castle, greetings and peace be with you.

In the small antechamber off the great hall, Guy read the neatly inscribed letter by the spill of light from the boisterous dinner. Only moments before, a travel-stained messenger had sought him out at the lowest end of the table and pressed the missive upon the monk. The young man’s weary face had lit up with pure joy when Guy rose, gave him his place and heaped a trencher full of venison and roast capon for him. Guy had then slipped into the small alcove, where he stared at the red seal with an anxious thudding in his heart. He recognized the signet of the father abbot of the Saint Hugh’s Priory.

May this letter find you and your charges in good health and excellent spirits and—if God be willing—celebrating the great Feast of the Nativity.

Father Jocelyn’s timing was impeccable, as always. The younger novices had often wondered if the man possessed second sight or had an angel as his watchdog. The truth of either would come as no surprise.

If the messenger has found you, and you are reading this at Snape Castle, then I trust that you have arrived with Lady Celeste de Montcalm. It is to this matter that I wish to open my thoughts. When you came to us in the spring, you were filled with the love of God and good intentions. Yet your heart was weary, and no amount of prayer, fasting or hard work seemed to give you the joy and peace you so desperately sought.

Guy’s mouth twisted in a rueful smile. Father Jocelyn also read men’s souls, it seemed. He should be prudent, lest he be burned as a wizard.

You have been gone from our care for several months, and I have prayed that your journey reach not only a successful conclusion for your body, but for your soul. If now you find that your life’s path lies not within the four small walls of Saint Hugh’s, but in the hands and the heart of the Lady Celeste, then that is where our Lord wants you to be.

Guy closed his eyes for a moment. The blood pounded in his temples. When his breathing became more regular, he opened his eyes and continued reading.

If this then is the case, I heretofore release you from all your vows: those of poverty, chastity and obedience to me and to the rule of the Order of St. Francis, and that vow which I placed especially upon you—silence. If the lady is willing and you can claim her in honor, then I further bestow upon you my blessings and prayers for a long and happy life together. May you both rejoice in the love of Christ all the days of your lives. Written by my hand this 28th day of November, in the year of our Lord fifteen hundred and eight and twenty, Father Jocelyn Pollock.

Guy reread the letter, afraid he had misunderstood his superior’s generosity. Once assured that Father Jocelyn had indeed returned him to the secular world with love and understanding, Guy sagged against the chill wall. For Celeste, he had been willing to dash his pride of honor to the four winds and literally abduct her. Now he held in his hands the permission to pursue his heart’s desire with all the nobility that was his by birthright. How his father would roar with laughter over this turn of events! Guy thought.

He was tempted to fling back the alcove’s curtain and shout his love above the music and the din, but he realized that seemingly scandalous action would not only break the good cheer of the guests and anger Sir Roger into a dangerous rage, but would, no doubt, highly distress the object of his desire, Celeste. Best to let his plans, conceived on the first day of Advent—in fact, on the very day Father Jocelyn had written this letter—go forward. Guy interpreted the letter as a good omen. Tomorrow he would win his lady’s heart and hand on the field of honor—or die in the attempt.

Fearing that his great joy might prompt him to speak to Celeste and reveal his identity to her, Guy stole away from the Christmas feast and hurried back to Brandon’s secret camp beyond the forest. He never felt the cold wetness of the snow seeping through his sandals, or the bitter winds from the North Sea that tore at his ragged robe. His cheerful spirit warmed him as he crossed the frozen field, and his heart truly did possess golden wings.

The day’s merry celebrations wound down early, as everyone wanted to get a good night’s sleep for the tournament on the morrow. Sir Roger kissed his betrothed often during the evening supper, in full view of his guests, who urged their host with much cheering to even more public displays of his affection. Celeste bore his invasions of her mouth and person with as good a grace as she could muster in the face of the grinning horde, though as each hour passed her heart grew heavier. At last, pleading a headache, she excused herself from the company.

“Aye, there’s a wench!” Sir Roger bellowed in English as Celeste started up the stairs to her room. “Tomorrow at this time, my friends, I shall wait upon that lady and forward her desire to lead a merrier life!”

Though shamed by his thinly veiled vulgarity, Celeste held her head high and pretended she had not understood a word he said.

“In truth, I am sorely tempted to experience her delights much sooner!” Clamorous banging on the tables greeted Sir Roger’s remark.

After rounding the bend of the stairs, Celeste picked up her skirts of yellow satin and raced for her room.
Not tonight! Sweet Jesu! Please
,
not yet!

Just as she reached her door, she heard Lord Jeffrey’s voice. “Nay, be not so hot, old man, or you’ll spend yourself in one volley. Save your strength for the lists tomorrow, for I intend to unhorse you before your fair bride.”

“Think you so, prattling drunkard?” Sir Roger’s roar bounced off every wall. “Nay, ’tis impossible that I should be brought low by such a varlet as yourself!”

“How low?” Lord Jeffrey retorted. “By my troth, I shall bring you low this night.”

“Listen to the jackdaw croak! What weapons do you choose? Sword or broomstick?”

“Nay, by sack wine! Ho, churls! Fill our cups to overflowing, and let us see who falls first!”

Pausing with her hand on the latch, Celeste breathed a sigh of relief. Thanks to Lord Jeffrey’s taunting challenge, Ormond had forgotten all about her. She flung open the door and rushed inside.

“My—my lady!” Pip jumped from where he had been kneeling by her bed. “Good evening to ye!”

Celeste eyed the red-faced boy. What manner of mischief was his intent? She crossed her arms over her breast. “Hey-ho, Peep! What is it you do here, eh? A frog to warm my bed, perhaps?”

Pip backed away from the canopied four-poster as if it had suddenly burst into flames. “Nay, my lady! Faith, no frog with any wit about him is out this cold night.”

“Oui,
so what have you put in my bed—a poor witless worm?” Celeste bit the inside of her cheeks to keep from laughing. Pip looked so deliciously guilty. He reminded her of her pranks at home. “Come, come. I have caught you—how you say?—fair and square. Show me this Christmas surprise.”

Pip opened his mouth, but his protest of innocence died on his lips when he saw Celeste pick up a switch from the kindling. Nearly tripping over his new shoes, he dashed for the bed and lifted the top bolster. Shyly he handed her a small packet tied with a red ribbon. Celeste softened when she saw his gift.

“Oh, Peep! It is not yet New Year’s Day. Your gift is early.”

Pip drew himself up. “’Tis nae mine to give. I am a messenger.” His thin shoulders slumped. “An’ a poor one, to be found out.”

“I am the judge of that.” Celeste untied the ribbon, and revealed a simple golden ring with the words,
Pencez moi
, engraved on it. The paper that had wrapped it bore no name, only the beloved sign of the winged heart.
Think of me
, her Knight begged her, with his golden circle signifying eternal love.

“Who gave this to you?” she asked, when she could finally speak without a tear in her voice.

“By’r Larkin!” Pip breathed, ogling the ring. “’Tis a pretty piece o’ work, that!”

“But where did you get it?” Celeste slipped it onto the third finger of her left hand, and was pleased that it fit perfectly.

He backed toward the door. “Nay, I swear by the moon, I did nae steal it!”

“Little knave! Who gave you this ring?” She changed her tone into one of gentle wheedling. “Please tell me, Peep.”

The boy swallowed. “I would if’n I could, my lady, but I did swear upon a sword—aye, an’ a sharp sword ’twas tool—that I would nae tell no one. Ye can rack me or hang me in chains, ’twon’t do ye nae good. I pledged me word” Despite his brave speech, Pip looked very nervous, as if he feared Celeste might put him to some hideous torture.

“Then tell me this, Peep. Is the Knight of the Loyal Heart ver-rey handsome?”

The relieved boy broke into a wide grin. “Bein’ no lady like ye, I am a poor judge, but I tell ye true—your knight is the best man in the world for ye, my lady. An’ he loves ye full sore. Is that handsome enough?”

Celeste’s only answer was tears of joy. The sight of them rolling down her cheeks unnerved Pip. With a hurried wish for sweet dreams, he bolted from the room.

Far into the magical night of Christmas, when all the animals of the world were said to speak at midnight, Celeste sat before her fire and admired the flames’ reflection in the slim golden band around her finger.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

I
n the darkness of early morning on Saint Stephen’s Day, Celeste awoke with a dull headache and a great lump in her throat. Burrowing deeper under the feather quilting, she listened to the wind whistling outside the window. Her wedding day had arrived—the most important day in her life—and Celeste wanted to turn the calendar either forward or backward. She grimaced as she thought of the next twenty-four hours.

The newness of the golden ring on her finger reminded her of the one ray of hope. The Knight of the Loyal Heart, no longer a figment of her imagination, would finally make his appearance today. Pip had seen him, talked with him. Whatever else happened to her, Celeste would treasure this dream come true for the rest of her days as the mistress of bleak Snape Castle.

“Dress warmly, my lady.” Mistress Conroy bustled into the room, followed by Nan, who carried a steaming mug of spiced wine. “’Tis a day fit to shatter the devil’s tail.”

Celeste wished the housekeeper didn’t sound so cheerful.

“Faith, my lady, I’ve ne’er seen such a crop o’ handsome men as have come t’ do ye honor,” Nan rhapsodized as she poked up the fire into a roaring blaze. “More came in the middle o’ the night. By’r Larkin, my lady! There’s horses an’ pages everywhere, an’ the meadow looks like the grandest thing since...” Nan paused, wrinkling her brow. “Since I’ve ne’er seen before,” she finished.

Celeste’s heart skipped a beat. Her knight must have come! Ignoring the chill of the room, she threw off the covers and dashed to the window. Clucking behind her, Mistress Conroy held out her furred robe. At least a hundred cooking fires burned in the velvet blackness of the field below the ramparts. Even at this distance, Celeste heard good-natured shouting, and the metallic jingle of harness for both the men and their horses.

“How many of the knights have come?” she asked breathlessly as Mistress Conroy guided her back to the warmth of the hearth.

“By my troth! ’Tis more’n we’ve seen in my lifetime.” The housekeeper ran a brush through Celeste’s hair, working to loosen the tangles after a restless night. “There’s the Lords of Morpeth, Brownlow, young Sir Harry Percy from Alnwick, a-hiding from his shrewish wife, Rothbury, the master of Cheviot, an’ even the Earl of Thornbury himself. He’s Sir Roger’s overlord, an’ hasn’t been here in a friendly manner for years. Brought his lady wife, as well.”