Dedication Letter to Reader Title Page About the Author Acknowledgments Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Chapter Eleven Chapter Twelve Chapter Thirteen Chapter Fourteen Chapter Fifteen Chapter Sixteen Chapter Seventeen Chapter Eighteen Chapter Nineteen Chapter Twenty Chapter Twenty-One Chapter Twenty-Two Chapter Twenty-three Chapter Twenty-four Chapter Twenty-Five Chapter Twenty-Six Chapter Twenty-Seven Chapter Twenty-Eight Chapter Twenty-Nine Chapter Thirty Epilogue Copyright

Critical acclaim for Tori Phillips

“... historical romance reading at its absolute best.”

—Affaire de Coeur

“A delightful Elizabethan romp.”

—Ruth Ryan Langan

“A great read!”

—Dixie Browning

“A delight to read...charming.”

—Suzanne Barclay

“... packed with love, adventure, history...I enjoyed it immensely.”

—Rebecca Hagan Lee

“I loved this story!...Tarleton (the hero) is pure magic!”

—Martha Hix

“A stunning debut for Ms. Phillips...”

—Rendezvous

Dear Reader,

Tori Phillips’s first book, Fool’s Paradise, won her a prestigious Maggie Award even before she sold it to Harlequin Historicals for release during our 1996 March Madness promotion of talented new authors. This month Tori Phillips returns with another unforgettable story, Silent Knight. Despite his vow of silence and the fact that she is promised to another, a would-be monk and a French noblewoman fall in love on a delightful journey across medieval England. Don’t miss this wonderful book.

The Wastrel introduces a new series of Victorian romance novels from award-winning author Margaret Moore, featuring a trio of “most unsuitable” heroes that she has aptly named MOST UNSUITABLE.... The Wastrel is the magical story of a disowned heiress and a devil-may-care bachelor who learn about love with the help of her colorful relatives.

A Western by Rae Muir, another author from our 1996 March Madness promotion, The Trail to Temptation, about a star-crossed couple who fight their attraction on a trail drive from Texas to Montana, and The Devil’s Kiss, a romantic comedy from longtime Harlequin Historicals Western writer, DeLoras Scott, round out a terrific month.

Whatever your taste in reading, we hope Harlequin Historicals will keep you coming back for more. Please keep a lookout for all four titles, available wherever books are sold.

Sincerely,

Tracy Farrell

Senior Editor

Please address questions and book requests to: Harlequin Reader Service U.S.: 3010 Walden Ave., P.O. Box 1325, Buffalo, NY 14269 Canadian: P.O. Box 609, Fort Erie, Ont. L2A 5X3

Silent Knight

Tori Phillips

www.millsandboon.co.uk

TORI PHILLIPS

After receiving her degree in theater arts from the University of San Diego, Tori worked at MGM Studios, acted in numerous summer stock musicals and appeared in Paramount Pictures’ The Great GatsBy. Her plays, published by Dramatic Publishing Co., have been produced in the U.S. and Canada, and her poetry is included in several anthologies. She has directed over forty plays, including twenty-one Shakespeare productions. Currently she is a first-person, Living History actress at the Folger Shakespeare Library in Washington, D.C. She lives with her husband in Burke, VA.

My heartfelt thanks and bags of chocolate kisses to:

my agent, Mary Sue Seymour; and my editors,

Tracy Farrell and Karen Kosztolnyik, for

believing in me;

my guardian angels. Kathryn Falk, Lady Barrow;

Carol Stacy; Kate Ryan and Karen Armstrong for

pushing the “Start Now” button;

my mentors, Suzanne Barclay, Linda Castle and

Martha Hix for keeping me on the right track;

my writer friends, Jenny Bates; Katie Beach;

Margo Columbus; Margot Early; Gwynne Forster;

Sharon Frye; Karen Gromada; Loree &

Threasa Leatherman; Ammanda McCabe;

Rita Madole, Debbie Martin; Marlene Million;

Betsy Morgan; Ginger Rapsus; Kimber Rowe;

Shelia Sampson; Karen Skuce; Karen Smith;

Debbie Staley; Mara Segal; Audri Taylor,

Cindy Walker, Karen Webb and all the ladies of the

Society of the Purple Prose for your warmth, humor,

encouragement and love; and to the Write Knight,

Steve Sandalis, for his heroic inspiration,

his great letters and his fantastic smile.

Chapter One

Tie up my love’s tongue and bring him silently. A Midsummer Night’s Dream

October 1528

On the Bristol-to-Chester Post Road

“Mon Dieu! Aunt Marguerite, are you much hurt?” Heedless of the pelting rain, Lady Celeste de Montcalm knelt in the viscous black mud of the roadside ditch beside the limp form of her aunt. The brown rivulet that filled the bottom of the ditch quickly soaked the skirts of Celeste’s burgundy velvet gown. With trembling fingers, she lifted the soggy headdress and sheer veil from the older woman’s graying hair, then unfastened the heavy woolen traveling cloak that pulled against her neck. She held the wet garment over them both, in- an attempt to shield them from the downpour.

“Aunt Marguerite?” Celeste swallowed back the iron taste of apprehension that rose in her throat. Her beloved companion’s face, usually so rosy, now looked the color of yesterday’s ashes. “I pray you, sweet Aunt, speak to me!” Far from answering her niece, Marguerite barely breathed. Strong hands grasped Celeste’s shoulders. “By the sword of Saint George, my lady, come under the cover of the trees. You’ll catch your death in this damnable English weather.” Gaston, his voice grown hoarse from years of commanding green-willow youths, spoke with gruff gentleness in her ear. “I shall attend your good aunt.”

“Non!” Celeste shook herself free of his grip. “I will not leave her side for a moment. I cannot let her die!”

Swearing a string of colorful words heard more usually in the taverns of Paris, Gaston vented his frustration upon the five men-at-arms and the white-faced driver who strove to lift the overturned wagon off the unconscious lady.

“Move, you filthy lice! Put your backs to it! What are you? Coney rabbits?”

Ignoring her sergeant’s language, Celeste focused her attention on the faint rise and fall of Marguerite’s spare bosom. The good Lord be praised! She lived yet! Clasping her aunt’s hand in hers, Celeste willed her young strength into Marguerite’s fragile body. The side of the baggage wagon that pinned the woman against the wall of the ditch barely moved, despite the combined efforts of the men.

Shielding her eyes against the cold, driving rain of the autumn storm, Celeste scanned the flat countryside about them. Farmers’ fields, recently harvested, lay in dark boggy patches, relieved here and there by sheltering trees, whose black dripping branches released the last of this year’s leaves. She gnawed her lower lip as her gaze swept across the unpromising scene. If a troubadour wove this latest misadventure into verse, several handsome knights would come galloping down the road any minute, led by the darkly handsome Sir Lancelot. Alas, this was no story sung by a hearth fire or illustrated in one of her father’s precious books. The rain pelting against her face hid the tears Celeste couldn’t stop from rolling down her cheeks. She must not let her men know how truly frightened she was. A dark, square building, half-hidden by a rise in the landscape, suddenly caught her attention.

“Gaston, regardez!” She pointed across the flooded fields. “A house, and of goodly size, I think.”

Gaston let go the near wheel and squinted in the direction his mistress pointed. “Oui, my lady. And pray God they understand French, for there’s not a man among us who speaks this bastard country’s tongue.” He motioned to the young driver who attended the horses under a roadside copse of elm trees. “You, Pierre! There’s a house of some sort ahead. Don’t snivel and ask me where. Mount up my Black Devil and ride for help.”

The slim boy nodded, then flung himself into Gaston’s saddle.

“And if you value the hide on your skinny arse, do not return without goodly company!” Gaston shouted after Pierre as the boy urged the great stallion into a gallop. “Pah! I may skin him like a coney if he mistreats my horse!” the sergeant growled into the gale.

Celeste shook the droplets out of her eyes. “Please, good Saint Catherine. Let whoever they are understand Pierre!” she prayed, her words snatched from her lips by the wind. Her veil whipped into her face, wrapping her features within its wet white folds. Angrily she snatched the bothersome thing off her head, allowing her raven tresses to fly freely about her. A low groan returned her attention to her aunt.

Marguerite’s eyelids fluttered, blinked, then opened. For a scant moment, the woman stared past Celeste, and then her face crumpled into a portrait of pain.

“I am dying!” Marguerite wheezed. Then, in a clearer tone, she snapped. “What happened?”

Celeste’s heart leapt with joy. If Marguerite could complain and question at the same time, she was certainly not dying.

“Hush, sweet darling,” Celeste crooned, in much the same way Aunt Marguerite had often comforted her and her sisters when they were younger. “Don’t try to move. The wagon hit a rock in the roadway. It broke one of the wheels and bounced you out. Then the wagon fell on top of you. Are you badly hurt?” she added, hoping to sound calm and in control of the situation.

Marguerite rolled her eyes. “Oui, silly child! Of course I am hurt! And what is that ox Gaston doing about it, one asks? Swearing death and destruction, as always? Fah! We never should have set foot on this cursed island! Why couldn’t you have stayed in the Loire and become a nun?” Marguerite groaned loudly again.

Celeste kissed her aunt’s hand and murmured foolish endearments, all the while hoping to hear the sound of horses approaching. Where was that laggard Pierre?

“Bonjour, Lady Marguerite!” said Gaston, peering over Celeste’s shoulder. “We shall have you free in no time.”

Marguerite glared at the rough-hewn soldier. “In no time? Ha! You speak true, you slug. Time will run out before you can manage to relieve me of this burden. Then where will I be, eh? With the angels in heaven, that’s where!”

“I predict your good aunt will recover,” Gaston muttered in Celeste’s ear. “Her tongue still holds a sharp sting.”

The wagon shifted slightly. Gaston threw his weight against it, growling down a great number of oaths upon drivers, horses, English roads, English weather, and England in general. His scarred brown leather boots slid down the muddy embankment as he fought against the unwieldy weight.

“Courage, good Aunt. Pierre has gone for help.”

“Bah!” Marguerite grimaced. “A great heap of good that will do! ’Tis like sending a tortoise to market!” She groaned again, though Celeste could not tell if it was more for effect than from pain. Aunt Marguerite’s convenient headaches and mysterious stomach disorders were legendary among the extended Montcalm family. This time, however, the older woman indeed had something to complain about.

“I am not surprised this happened. A witch put her curse on us from the moment we landed, I am sure of it.” She sighed. “Why must your parents send you to this godforsaken country simply to be married?” Marguerite continued, her voice growing weaker. “Just wait until I next see your father! I tell you truly, Lissa. I shall deal him such a blow upon his ear, he will see stars at midday!”

Celeste smoothed her palm across her aunt’s brow, as if she could wipe away both the pain and the ceaseless rain. “Hush, sweet darling. Save your strength. Pierre will return soon.”

“Ha! When the devil speaks the truth!” Moaning softly, Marguerite closed her eyes.

Celeste cast an anxious glance at Gaston. Raindrops hung on his bushy eyebrows and dripped from his salt-and-pepper beard. He gave her the ghost of a rueful smile. “It will take more than an upset cart to silence Marguerite de la Columbiare. Wipe away your fear, my lady.” The old soldier squeezed her shoulder, then renewed his fierce exhortations to his laboring men.

Thank the good Lord her father had sent Gaston with her when Celeste and Marguerite left their chateau, L’Étoile, two months ago! Two months? Nay, it seemed like two years, and the journey to her unknown bridegroom was only half-over. Celeste pulled the cloak closer over Marguerite, trying to block the worst of the storm. Gruff Gaston had been her father’s faithful sergeant during his youthful campaigns. Now he served his master’s youngest daughter with equal devotion. Celeste promised herself to commend Gaston’s steadfastness to her parents as soon as she was safely at Snape Castle—wherever in this wretched land that odd-sounding place was.

“By the holy cross, it is about time!” Gaston bellowed. “Take heart, my lady. Pierre returns, and brings help, as well!”

Shaking the rain out of her eyes and the heaviness from her heart, Celeste peered through the gathering gloom. Pierre rode Black Devil as if the true fiend of hell were after him. Behind the boy, she could make out a number of figures, accompanied by a two-wheeled cart. Knights, come to aid two ladies in distress!

“Praise be to the guardian angels,” Pierre panted as he reined the great stallion to a halt. “There is a small monastery ahead, full of good brothers. And they speak a passable French. Look you, Lady Celeste. They come.”

Out of the rain, a half-dozen men dressed in the simple brown woolen robes of the Franciscans hurried toward them. The creak of their cart’s wheels made welcome music to Celeste’s ears, though the plain-garbed monks were a far cry from her knight-filled fantasy. Without pausing, the new arrivals leapt into the ditch and took hold of the wagon. Celeste saw their bare feet, shod only in open sandals, sink into the clammy muck.

One, taller by a head than the rest, shouted a quick command in English, and then everyone heaved against the wagon together. Miraculously, the cumbersome vehicle lifted away from Aunt Marguerite’s body. With the groaning of splintered wood and the creaking of the wet leather springs, the heavy conveyance regained the roadbed once more, where it came to rest in a woefully canted position.

“Peace be with you, my lady.” A gentle voice, warm as summer honey, spoke flawless French in Celeste’s ear. “Let me tend to your companion and ease her suffering.”

Celeste looked up at the speaker, then gasped when she beheld him. The tall blond monk had the shining face of the archangel Gabriel himself!

Guy Cavendish had seen many pretty women in his twenty-eight years, but never one whose eyes flashed the color of purple violets in springtime and whose midnight black hair blew in a silken cloud about her. A hot stirring fluttered below his knotted rope belt. He clamped his teeth tightly together. Jesu! The girl was temptation incarnate—the very thing he had renounced when he entered Saint Hugh’s Priory six months ago and pledged himself to a life of poverty, obedience and chastity—especially chastity.

Her eyes widened with that old familiar look of awe that he hated to see on anyone’s face. Guy ducked his head lower, hiding from the lady’s glassy-eyed expression. By the Book! When would people—especially women—cease to stare at him like that? All his life, the word beautiful shadowed Guy. Though his body had shot up to six and a half feet, filling out at the proper time into a man’s form, his face had never roughened as his brother’s did, but had retained the look that his old nurse once told him reminded her of the stained-glass windows in York Minster. Guy’s blond curls had not darkened to brown, as Brandon’s had done. Despite the bald patch in his novice’s tonsure, his short hair fell about his face in a bright golden halo, which only accentuated the deep blue of his eyes.

Disgusted by his unwanted beauty, he had thrown himself into the harsh training of warfare. The years of riding at the quintain and wielding a heavy two-edged sword had not marred his cursed looks, but instead, hardened his muscles and broadened his shoulders so that men held him in respect and women openly admired him.

Singly and in battalions, ladies at the king’s court had sighed at his beauty, fought for his attention at tournaments and boldly proffered their own special favors in return. Being a mere mortal, without saintly pretensions, Guy had taken what was so enthusiastically offered. But in the secret hours of the night he had wondered if the lady who slept beside him would have been so generous if he was less comely.

As his hands gently probed through the soaked velvet gown of the semiconscious woman, Guy strove to ignore the disturbing feminine presence only a whisper away from him. The injured lady cried sharply when he touched her left hip.

“Softly, good mother,” he murmured as his fingers continued their necessary search. He felt her stiffen as his hand hovered over her thigh. “I will be gentle. You will feel better anon, I promise.”

The old lady’s eyelids fluttered open. “I am in torment!” she groaned. Then she got a good look at him, and her mouth dropped open. “Sweet Saint Michael! Am I in paradise already?”

Guy sighed softly to himself. “Nay, good lady, unless you call a foul mud hole heaven.”

The woman surprised him by giving a weak chuckle. “Would that I were twenty years younger and not so sore in body. I’d make a heaven of any spot on earth, if you were there to share it with me.”

The lady of the violet eyes gasped. “Hush, Aunt! You are speaking to a priest. Pay her no mind, Father. I fear my aunt’s tongue runs faster than her wits. It is the pain that makes her prattle, n’est-ce pas?”

Reluctantly Guy allowed his gaze to light upon the speaker. A mistake of the first order! He felt as if a dart from a crossbow had shot through him, rendering him speechless.

“A priest! Quel dommage! Such a pity, eh, Lissa? Did the maidens tie black ribbons in their hair when you professed your vows, handsome Father?” The aunt’s eyes twinkled with faint merriment before they closed against another wave of pain.

Despite being the subject of this uncomfortable conversation, Guy allowed a faint grin to touch his lips. “As to that, I know not, my lady, though my mother cried and wondered what she had done wrong in my upbringing.”

“I daresay she did right well,” murmured the aunt before lapsing into a faint.

“Oh, please, don’t let her die,” the younger woman begged, her purple irises shimmering in the raindrops.

“She’ll not die—not this day, at least.” As he spoke, Guy removed the rope from around his waist and used it to lash the aunt’s lower extremities together. “She has merely fainted, which is a blessing. The trip back to the monastery would be an agony, were she awake.” Averting his eyes from the young lady, Guy called in English to one of his fellow novices.

“Brother Thomas! Your strong arm is needed here. The old woman has broken a bone or two and must be gently carried.”

“Aye!” The younger monk, little more than a boy and robust in nature, slipped through the mud at Guy’s command.

The girl rose and made a space for Thomas, who barely gave her a second glance. Guy wondered how the boy could be so immune to the bewitching spell of her dark, loose hair and the purple fire in her eyes. Then he chided himself. Of course Thomas saw nothing rare in her. The lad was far saintlier than Guy could ever hope to be. No doubt Thomas had never tasted the sinful pleasures of the flesh. Angry at his own weakness, Guy vowed to spend that night in humble prostration before the altar, on the freezing stones of the chapel floor. He knew from experience that such a penance would cool the ardor of even Great Harry himself.

“Slip your arms under the lady and grasp my wrists,” Guy instructed, hoping his voice would not betray the turmoil of the emotions seething inside him. “Good. Now, on my word, lift her gently, holding her as level as possible.”

“Aye, Bother Guy,” Thomas answered. “I am ready.”

“On the count of three.” Guy gripped Thomas’ wrists. “One... two...”

“Be careful. She is most dear to me,” the girl at Guy’s elbow whispered in French.

Despite the chill of the rain, Guy’s blood warmed as if turned to liquid fire; his heart raced. He gritted his teeth. “Three!” Acting as one, Thomas and Guy lifted the injured lady from the ditch and carried her quickly to the monastery’s cart. Brother Cuthbert, a brother skilled in the healing arts, lifted the makeshift canvas covering, allowing Guy and Thomas to place the lady on a bed of dry straw.

“Did you say she suffers a broken bone?” Cuthbert asked Guy in a quiet, professional manner.

“Aye, her left leg for sure, and perhaps her hip, as well.”

Cuthbert nodded. “’Tis a blessing she is unconscious.”

“Amen to that, I say.” Guy stepped back as Cuthbert sprang into the driver’s seat and slapped the reins against the patient horse’s rump. As the cart rolled away, something tugged the loose sleeve of Guy’s robe. Turning, he nearly stumbled over the enchantress of the raven locks.

“Pardon, good Father,” she began, each syllable falling like drops of heady French wine. “But I do not understand English very well. What did you say about my aunt?” Her eyes, if anything, appeared to grow larger, burning deeper into his soul.

“Broken leg,” Guy muttered brusquely, trying to avoid her stare. Why did she have to look at him as if he were the fabled unicorn? “Best that you mount up and ride quickly to the priory. You do ride, do you not, my lady? You will catch a chill and fever if you stand here. You are wet through.”

Before he realized what he was doing, his gaze slid down from her face to her slender white throat, and from to her soaked bodice. The wet burgundy velvet molded her high breasts, boldly outlining the delicious promise that lay scarcely hidden there. Another fiery bolt impaled him. He nearly groaned with the painful pleasure. A mere night on the chapel floor would not suffice. He vowed a full day of penance, as well.

“I thank you for your concern, Father,” she murmured in a low, slightly husky voice that reminded Guy of hickory smoke—and hot passion between fresh sheets.

God forgive him for the unholy thoughts that whirled about his fevered brain. He would wear a hair shirt when he did his self-imposed vigil in the chapel.

An impish smile curled the corners of her full cherry mouth. “And I do ride quite well — like the wind. Not very ladylike, they tell me.” As she turned toward the horses, the back of her hand brushed against his. He jumped as if he had been caressed by a burning brand.

“Oh!” Turning her wide eyes upon him once more, she lifted her hand to her mouth, as if she, too, had felt the fire.

Their glances locked for an eternal instant. Guy felt himself plummeting into an abyss. Her gaze spoke unvoiced poetry to his heart. He could not tear himself from her power until she blinked; then he turned quickly away.

A hair shirt, and twenty-four hours on the hard flagstones—and fasting. Yes, he must fast, as well, Guy decided as he watched the grizzled old retainer lift the girl into the saddle of her palfrey. Hitching up the trailing hem of his oversize robe, Guy followed after her down the road. Tonight, he would pray that she would ride out of his safely ordered life as quickty as possible.

As he watched her back sway rhythmically in the saddle, his mind wandered from his holy intent. “Lissa,” the aunt had called her. What sort of name was that?

Chapter Two

“’T is not often we have the opportunity to entertain such charming company as yourself, Lady Celeste.” Father Jocelyn Pollock, prior of Saint Hugh’s, wiped his fingers free of chicken grease on his rough linen napkin. Nor was it often that he dined so richly, and he wondered if his digestion would pay the price for this indulgence in the middle of the night. Nevertheless, he enjoyed the opportunity to exercise his French. Brother Giles, acting as servitor, poured more wine into a simple pottery cup, which he offered to the lady.

“Merci, ” she murmured, her long, dark lashes fluttering like a butterfly on a midsummer’s day.

Father Jocelyn noted how the lady’s eyes sparkled in the candlelight, and he made a mental note to keep his novices and younger monks out of her sight. On second thought, he should keep most of his charges within the confines of the cloister, lest they be beguiled by this extraordinary creature. Already, in the space of an hour at supper, Lady Celeste had transformed solemn Brother Giles into a blushing, stammering schoolboy. Praise be to the entire heavenly host that the young woman had no idea of the power of her charms. Father Jocelyn sighed into his napkin. She would learn soon enough.

“’Tis most unfortunate that your aunt has suffered a fractured hip, as well as a broken leg,” Father Jocelyn continued. His unexpected guests presented him with a number of problems, the least of which was Lady Marguerite’s injuries.

“But she will recover, oui?” Placing her eating knife across her trencher, Lady Celeste raised her eyes in supplication.

The prior nodded. “Aye, my lady. She will be made whole again under the care of our gifted Brother Cuthbert.” Frowning slightly, he swirled the dregs of the wine in his cup. “However, ’tis out of the question for her to travel anywhere before Christmastide. At which time, it would be advisable for her to return to your home in France, where the weather is kinder to knitting bones.”

For a moment, Lady Celeste did not speak. Then she sighed. “I suspected as much, good Father. Indeed, I am hardly surprised. ’Tis merely one more misadventure we have suffered since... we left L’Étoile.”

Father Jocelyn crumbled the crust of his trencher between his thumb and forefinger. “There have been other accidents, my child?”

“Accidents?” Her dark brows arched to a point. Her lips curled into a half smile. “This entire journey has been one long accident, Father.”

The prior snapped his fingers to attract the attention of Brother Giles, who looked as if he had been kicked in the head by Daisy, the monastery’s infamous donkey. Coloring, the brother began to clear the board. Yes, Father Jocelyn decided, watching Brother Giles trip over the hem of his robe, he definitely must send the Lady Celeste on her way as soon as possible.

The prior cleared his throat. “Traveling is always difficult. I am surprised to find you accompanied by so few retainers, and so late in the year.”

The lady dabbed the corners of her lips with her napkin before answering. “It was not so in the beginning. We left my home in late August. My father provided me with my aunt as chaperon. I also had good Gaston, a dozen men-at-arms, my maid, Suzette...” Here, she faltered and bowed her head for a moment. Father Jocelyn had the distinct impression that the lady’s tale was not a pleasant one.

“There were also two wagons, and the drivers,” she continued in a soft throaty voice.

Father Jocelyn cocked one eyebrow. “Two wagons? Pray, go on, my lady.”

“All went well—in France.”

“Ah, ’twas the crossing of the Channel?” The prior had done that once himself, when he visited Italy in his youth. He had vowed if God would let him live through the experience, he would never leave England again.

“Oui!” Her eyes flashed. “We were all sick, even the poor horses. In truth, good Father, I prayed for death over and over as our ship pitched and dived among the waves. Is that not wicked of me?”

Father Jocelyn shook his head. “Understandable, given the circumstances.”

“It was over a week before we landed safely in a place called Bristol. I must confess that I fell to my knees and kissed the ground.”

“Also understandable.” Father Jocelyn had done the same thing upon his return to England.

“Pah! Had I known what was in store for us here, I would have turned right around and ordered that miserable boat back to France!”

Brother Giles tittered. The prior flashed him a scorching look. Father Jocelyn wished he could send the younger man back to the kitchen; however, the lady’s reputation, as well as the prior’s, required that a third party be present at all times. Who would have expected that sober-minded Giles would be reduced to a quivering mass of suet pudding by a smoky voice and a pair of violet eyes?

“Once our stomachs returned to their rightful places, we set out, going north toward Chester, I believe. I fear I am not acquainted with the English countryside.”

“No one would expect you to be,” interjected Brother Giles with feeling. Father Jocelyn glared at him.

“Oui! You have grasped the very kernel of the truth. Our party wandered over hill and dale, because it amused the common folk to misguide us—even when we paid them for their directions. I am sure we looked a fool’s progress as we turned in circles at their whim. Indeed, at one point we discovered we were headed in the opposite direction, when we found a milepost pointing back toward Bristol!”

“Surely there must have been some honest folk you met on your way?”

Lady Celeste shrugged her shoulders slightly. “Oui, though it took us nearly a month to find one. When at last we were headed north again, the skies turned against us, and it rained for days on end.”

“I fear our weather is one of the crosses we must bear,” the prior remarked gently.

“It rained so much that all the little brooks became rushing rivers. We lost a wagon while fording one. If it were not for Pierre’s quick thinking, we would have lost the horses, as well. He leapt on the back of the lead mare as she thrashed in the water. At peril of his own life, he cut the traces. Our Pierre is only sixteen, but he is very brave, no?” Her eyes sparkled as she recounted the harrowing incident.

He’s probably suffering the loss of his wits. The prior kept that observation to himself. The girl warmed to her tale, despite its gravity. Father Jocelyn found himself wondering if she secretly relished the adventure. How unsuitable for a young lady of gentle breeding!

“We were able to save some of the furnishings my mother sent with me for my new home, but the wagon? Fah! Firewood! ” She sipped her wine. “Gaston sent the first driver and his team back to Bristol.” She sighed. “They are most likely at home by now.”

Father Jocelyn suspected the young lady wished she was back in L’Étoile, as well. He couldn’t blame her. When he saw a small frown knot itself between her delicate eyebrows, he asked, “There is more?”

Lady Celeste sighed again. “Oui, though I wish there were not. I believe we ate some poorly cooked food in an inn outside of...” She struggled to think of the name. “Outside of Hereford. Many of my men came down with stomach cramps. It was most piteous to hear them moan. At one point, I feared for their lives. My dear little maid, Suzette—she was so very sick. We stayed in that miserable town for almost two weeks. At last, everyone recovered, but they were very weak. Suzette lost so much weight, I could not bear the thought of making her continue the journey. She is only fourteen, Father. When she was well enough, I sent her back to Bristol with three of the men.”

The prior shook his head. The lady sitting opposite him didn’t look much older than her maid, yet she seemed to have been made stronger by the series of setbacks. “And now your aunt. It seems God has sorely tested your mettle, ma petite.”

Her eyes flashed with an inner fire. “You have spoken truly, Father, yet I must go on. My father gave his word that I would wed Walter Ormond, and the word of the chevalier of Fauconbourg is golden. Even if I arrive at Snape Castle in only my shift, I must go on. The honor of my family is at stake.”

The bridegroom’s name jangled a faint bell within Father Jocelyn’s memory. He had heard something about a branch of the Ormond family that was not altogether savory. “Walter Ormond? Would his father be Sir Roger Ormond?”

For the first time that evening, she truly smiled. The effect nearly shattered Brother’s Giles’s fragile composure. “Oui, the very same!” She clapped her hands with delight. “Do you know him, good Father?”

The prior wet his lips before answering. He had half a mind to tell her to flee back to France immediately, but he suspected she would face death before disgracing the family name. “The Ormonds live on the northern outskirts of civilization. I fear they are a rough and uncultured lot. Tell me, my child. How is it such a well-bred lady as yourself happened to become betrothed to the heir of such a far-flung estate?”

Lady Celeste swallowed at his words, though her gaze never wavered. “My father came to know Sir Roger and his son eight years ago, when your King Henry met with our king, Francois, at a beautiful city of tents outside of Calais, which people now call the Field of Cloth of Gold.” Her violet eyes gleamed as she recalled that near-legendary event.

“My father was a member of Francois’s court, and he entertained Sir Roger often during that fortnight. Oh, Father Jocelyn! I was there for a few days with my mother and sisters. It was truly the most magnificent sight!”

The old prior nodded. He had heard of the sumptuous feasts, the splendid tournaments and the brilliance of the two glittering courts, each vain monarch trying to outshine the other. He could well imagine how such a magnificent sight would have impressed the imagination of a young girl. “How many sisters have you, ma petite?”

“I have the honor of being the fifth and youngest daughter of Roland de Montcalm.” Her chin tilted up a notch.

“Five daughters! And brothers?”

“Only one survived. Philippe is the baby of the family.” She looked wistful as she spoke of her little brother. “We spoil him terribly.”

“Are your sisters married?” Father Jocelyn wondered if they were as striking as the lady opposite him.

“Oui, that is why my father allowed all of us to come to the Field of Cloth of Gold—to find good husbands. I am the last—and the only one who was betrothed to an Englishman.” She sighed softly, then flushed and glanced at the prior. “Pardon my manners, Father. It is not that I do not like the English, it’s just...” She groped for the right words.

“It’s just that you would have rather stayed in France, near your family?” he suggested in a gentle voice.

Lady Celeste rewarded him with a smile that lit up the small, Spartan guest room. Brother Giles hiccuped with suppressed pleasure.

“You are very wise, Father, to know my mind.” She cocked her head to one side. “Perhaps you can tell me what I am to do now that my aunt is sore injured and my only wagon is broken. I am most needful of good counsel. I must go on. I cannot return to L’Étoile. It would disgrace my father’s name, and...and...” She bit her lip.

“Yes, ma petite?” Father Jocelyn resisted the urge to lay his hand on her bowed head.

“It is my only offer of marriage, Father,” she confessed in a near whisper. “After settling dowries on my four older sisters, there was very little left for me. Sir Roger is kind enough to accept me when I bring his son so little to the marriage settlement.” She gave her slim shoulders a shake, then stared into the candle’s flame. “But I will bring him my honor, my virtue, and... and I will try to love him, as well.”

“Then Walter Ormond will be a rich man indeed,” murmured the prior, though a wing tip of apprehension brushed against his soul.

The morning air smelled fresh and clean when Guy emerged from the darkness of the chapel, where he had spent a cold, dank night lying facedown on the flagstones. The sun’s rays fell with welcome warmth on his chilled skin and robe, still damp from the rain of the day before. Guy moved stiffly across the cloister toward a low gate. A day spent tending the monastery’s herb garden would be good for both his sore body and his troubled mind. He wished Father Jocelyn had let him wear a hair shirt while he prayed on the chapel floor. Its rough discomfort might have banished the visions of deep violet eyes and flowing black hair that had danced through Guy’s meditations during his nocturnal penance. He hoped the troubling lady was gone by now—on her way to wherever it was. Anywhere but here at Saint Hugh’s.

Silver, rippling laughter brought Guy to an abrupt halt. His heart skipped its normal rhythm and strained against the confines of his chest. No member of Saint Hugh’s Priory laughed with such crystal sweetness, not even the youngest choirboy. Stepping back into the shade of a pillared archway, Guy peered over Brother Timothy’s prized rosebushes. Seated on a stone bench not ten feet away, the temptress who had plagued his prayers now toyed with Jeremiah, the kitchen’s ill-tempered cat.

“La, puss-puss,” the lady crooned, stroking the sensitive whiskers of the black-and-white mouser with a long piece of straw. “What a fine, handsome fellow you arel”

The cat’s docile behavior surprised Guy. He sucked in his breath when he saw the lady lean over and pick up the overfed creature. Guy tensed, expecting Jeremiah to lash out with his claws bared.

“Truly, you would make an admirable knight, if cats could wear armor,” she continued, settling him on her lap. “You are such an elegant puss-puss,” she continued in admiring tones, her fingers moving through Jeremiah’s thick fur in long, even strokes.

Guy shivered as he watched her graceful hands. Should he warn her of the cat’s irascible nature? Yet that would mean he would have to speak to her again, to look into those beguiling eyes once more. The short encounter of yesterday had been enough to send his thin defenses crashing down.

Perhaps it would be best for the sake of Guy’s troubled soul if the cat did scratch the girl. Then she would go away, or at least leave the cloister rose garden. Only a little scratch would do — the merest swipe. Not enough to draw blood, nor to injure her creamy skin. Just a suggestion of a scratch. Perhaps only the sight of a half-open talon. Guy bit back his alarm as the lady, heedless of the risk she took, swung Jeremiah over her shoulder and draped him around her neck like a fur collar.

“See,mon chat?” The lady picked up a small book, bound in dark blue leather, that had been lying on the bench beside her. “You would look most magnificent, I think, if you were dressed as the Knight of the Loyal Heart.” Absently, she rubbed Jeremiah behind his ears. “See this picture? You would wear the helm of the winged heart most nobly, oui?”

Closing his eyes, the cat nudged his head against the palm of her hand. Guy could almost hear the creature purring. Perhaps Jeremiah was befuddled by her French. Maybe he had never been this close to a woman before. In any event, he wasn’t acting normally. In fact, the cat looked as if he had found paradise within the dark tresses that peeped from under the lady’s sheer veil. Guy trembled with indignation, though he could not tear his gaze away from the simple domestic scene in front of him. That woman—nay, that chit of a girl—was the devil’s handmaiden, brought here to seduce the souls of this community of celibates. She even wove her witchcraft on the bellicose Jeremiah!

“La, dearest cat, you would save the poor damsel, Sweet Grace, from the evil power of the awful sorceress Denial, wouldn’t you?” The lady rubbed her cheek against the cat’s fur, as she turned to another page in her book and held it up for Jeremiah’s inspection. Even at a distance, Guy could see the exquisite detail of the illustration, rendered in jewel colors and bright gilding.

A book of romance and troubadour songs. Strange devotions for a well-bred young girl to read, especially within the walls of a holy monastery. Guy knew he should turn away in disgust. Every moment that he lingered in the shadows of the archway only heightened the danger to his vows.

Her hands fluttered over the cat like two butterflies in the sun. A sudden breeze threatened to lift the velvet French coif from her head. Guy caught himself wishing it would. He swore under his breath, then, aghast at what he had just said, whispered a hurried prayer after his oath.

By the Holy Grail, what was happening to him? Who was this creature but yet another one of those empty-headed females whom he sought to escape once and for all time behind these gray stone walls? He had had enough of women in all shapes, sizes, social orders and states of undress in the past twelve years to convince himself that not one of them was worth a groat.

Ever since Anne Boleyn had caught the king’s roving eye, Great Harry’s lust had doomed to extinction whatever shreds of honor and virtue still lingered in the corners of Westminster Palace. Guy counted himself well out of it. Now, when he least expected it, temptation played in the October sunshine. And his body—not to mention his very soul—responded like a starving man at a feast. Angrily he stalked toward the herb garden, taking care that he made no noise to attract the attention of those fascinating violet eyes.

Not even the bewitched Jeremiah looked up.

“What?” Guy sputtered, breaking into a sweat, though the evening air was cool. He cast a sidelong glance at Brother Cuthbert, who stood behind the prior’s chair. No trace of humor glinted in the older man’s gray eyes. Guy considered throwing himself to his knees, but thought the gesture might seem too dramatic within the confines of the prior’s office. “I pray you, Father, do not lay this burden on me!”

Father Jocelyn barely hid his smile. “How now? A burden? I should think you would welcome a chance to get out and enjoy the countryside. Mother Nature has trimmed herself in her best finery before cruel winter’s onslaught. ’Twould only be for a few weeks.”

“But why me?” Guy raked his fingers through the fringes of his thick blond hair. “I am only a novice. Perhaps it would be better for someone who has already taken his vows to go—someone who has been here a long time and would like a short holiday.” He glanced over to Brother Cuthbert.

Father Jocelyn coughed behind his hand. “Perhaps, but I think you are the best choice, Brother Guy. You understand French, and you know the lay of the land well. Northumberland is your home, is it not?”

Guy swallowed with difficulty. “Aye, Father, but...”

The prior held up his hand for silence. Guy bowed his head, though he could feel his heart thumping uncomfortably under his robe.

“Lady Celeste has already experienced a most difficult journey. In faith, I am tempted to return her to her home, but the lady won’t hear of it.”

Guy looked up, raising one brow in question. Obviously, the girl hadn’t a sensible bone in her body.

“She tells me that her family’s honor demands that she go on, come rack or ruin—which I fear may happen at the rate she is proceeding.”

“But, Father...”

The prior continued as if he hadn’t heard Guy’s disrespectful interruption. “Now that her aunt must stay behind, Lady Celeste needs some sort of chaperon, and that, Brother Guy, you will provide. No one will think it amiss if they see her traveling in the company of a priest.”

“Priest!” Guy erupted. He had never intended to take holy orders. He wasn’t worthy—not after the hell-bent life he had led. “Father, I am the furthest thing from the priesthood.”

Father Jocelyn gently shook his head in silent reproof. “It matters not what you truly are, so long as you are what you seem to be. To the world you are a man of God, and therefore above reproach.”

“And the lady—?” Guy tried not to think of her voice, like exotic incense, and her hair, the color of silken midnight.

“Lady Celeste will be none the wiser.” The prior’s lips curled at the corners. “Your virtue will be safe with her.”

Safe? Those liquid violet eyes and those lush lips, like satin rosebuds, promised scant safety to any mortal man. The prior had no idea what he was asking. Guy dropped to his knees. “Do not make me bear this cross, Father.” Hearing his own words, Guy realized he sounded a little overblown, but perhaps the prior would be moved by his biblical plea.

Father Jocelyn stood and slid his hands into the wide folds of his sleeves. “When you joined our community six months ago, Brother Guy, you promised obedience in all things.”

“Aye, Father.” Guy bowed his head and shut his eyes, trying to blot out what he knew was coming.

“Now I am commanding you to escort the Lady Celeste de Montcalm and her men safety to Sir Roger Ormond of Snape Castle, near Morpeth, in Northumberland. There she will wed Sir Roger’s son, Walter. After the ceremony, you will return here. Do I make myself clear in this matter, Brother Guy?”

“You do, Father.” Guy tried to control the tremor that shivered down his spine. Walter Ormond of Snape? Sweet Jesu! Nay! ’Twould be flinging a gentle dove into the talons of a hawk.

“Excellent!” Father Jocelyn nodded in satisfaction. Brother Cuthbert merely sucked in his breath.

Guy wet his lips. “But, Father, I fear for my soul to travel in the company of such a...such a lady as that.” He bit back the urge to bellow at his superior.

The prior chuckled. “I admit she is a most beauteous lady, Brother Guy. I am glad to see you have not lost your keen perception. As to your soul, I will lay on you one further commandment.” He paused as he glanced at Brother Cuthbert.

Guy waited tensely. The uneven flagstones bit deeper into his knees. He again licked his dry lips. He had a feeling he wasn’t going to like whatever the prior had in mind.

“At vespers tonight, you will make a solemn vow of silence. Henceforth, you will not speak, nor utter a sound, until Lady Celeste’s wedding day,” Father Jocelyn pronounced over him. A note of humor softened the tone of his voice.

Guy lifted his chin with firm resolve. “Aye, I will, Father Jocelyn.” If he couldn’t speak to her, there was a chance he could evade her wiles and snares. “And tonight, for my penance—”

“What penance do you think you need now, my son?” A warm twinkle danced in the prior’s eyes. “You were up all last night at prayer. You need your rest tonight, for you will depart with the lady at first light. Her wagon is repaired, and time is of the essence. The good weather will not hold for long.”

“Perhaps I could wear a hair shirt?” Guy suggested. Pain. He needed pain to keep his thoughts from wandering down the path of sweet perdition.

“That is hardly necessary, Brother Guy. I think riding astride Daisy for several weeks will be penance enough for even the worst of sins.” Before Guy could make a further suggestion, Father Jocelyn traced the sign of the cross over him. “Go in peace, my son.”

Guy rose, bowed to both the prior and his assistant, then let himself out the door. A myriad of thoughts tumbled through him as he fled for the silence of the chapel. By the rood! How was he going to survive the next month? Though the words of his prayers poured from his lips, he saw in his mind the beguiling beauty of Lady Celeste de Montcalm—and the well-remembered sneer of Walter Ormond.

From the side door of the chapel, the two Franciscans watched their newest novice wrestle with himself.

“Do you truly think it wise to send young Guy off with the lady?” Cuthbert murmured in an undertone.

Father Jocelyn nodded slowly, his eyes never leaving the kneeling form praying before the sanctuary. “Aye, Brother, I do. ’Tis for the best.”

Brother Cuthbert raised one eyebrow so high, it nearly lost itself in the mouse-gray fringe encircling his head. “How so?”

The prior tapped his finger against his nose. “Let us say that I have my suspicions concerning the sincerity of young Cavendish’s vocation.”

“But surely the lad is sincere. In the garden, in the chapel—he is constantly on his knees!” Cuthbert blustered in a whisper.

“Peace, good Brother. Time will tell.” The prior smiled at his old friend. They had entered the monastery together as boys, nearly thirty-five years ago. “When you and I took our final vows, we did so with great joy—running to our Lord. I suspect Brother Guy is running away from himself.”

Chapter Three

“You sent for me, Aunt Marguerite?” Celeste peered around the heavy wooden door of the guest infirmary.

Propped against several thick muslin-covered pillows, the older woman smiled and held out her hand to her niece.

“Come in quickly, Lissa, and shut that door tight behind you. Fah! This damp weather will kill me long before any horse and wagon.” A chuckle softened her words.

Celeste did as she was told, then drew up a small three-legged stool beside her aunt’s bed. Marguerite’s skin had regained a healthier color, and Celeste could tell by the brightness of her eyes that her aunt’s tart humor had returned to its full strength. The older woman held her niece’s hand as she regarded her by the light of the tallow candle on the bedside table. Celeste glanced at the clay pitcher and cup there.

“Would you like me to pour you some water?” she offered, making a move to do so. Marguerite merely tightened her grip on Celeste’s fingers.

“Water? Do I look like a fish? Non, but that know-it-all Brother Cuthbert thinks I am!” She sniffed loudly. “He means to drown me at the first opportunity. But never fear, Lissa. He has met his match!”

Celeste hid the smile that plucked at the corners of her lips. The unsuspecting brother had indeed encountered a formidable opponent, she feared, and she wished him all the courage he could muster. She suspected that Aunt Marguerite would sorely try the man’s patience, not to mention his sanctity, in the coming months, while she recovered from her injuries.

“I shall miss you, ma petite, ” Marguerite said with surprising gentleness.

Celeste swallowed back a tremor of sadness at these words. All afternoon she had tried to push away the idea of continuing on her journey alone. Now, in the depths of the night shadows, the reality of the situation had to be confronted, just as she had faced her fears of ghosts lurking in the dark corners of her home in the Loire valley. Celeste leaned forward and kissed her aunt on the cheek. Her skin felt cool and dry to the touch.

“And I shall miss your chiding tongue, your scolding frowns and your many instructions concerning my deportment. La! I never thought I would say those words, dear Aunt, but they are true. You are a dear part of me.”

Celeste banished a small sob that hovered in the back of her throat. She wouldn’t show weakness now. She had many miles to travel, alone in this inhospitable country, and she couldn’t let her aunt know how very frightened she was at that prospect.

Marguerite squeezed her hand again. “Humphl You, spin a pretty tale by the firelight—almost as farfetched as those romantic ballads you love so much.” Her voice caught. “I believe I will have a sip of that marsh water, after all,” she said, brusquely waving at the pitcher.

Celeste poured half a cup and held it out.

The patient took it and sipped in silence. Celeste fidgeted with one of the embroidered roses on her yellow satin skirt. The candle sputtered, a thin wisp of smoke curling back onto itself as it rose toward the low plastered ceiling. After a strained silence, Marguerite handed back the cup.

“Surely they must have wine in this place. I shall speak to that Brother Cuthbert about it. He shall know my mind on the subject by the terce bell tomorrow, I assure you!” Marguerite nodded to her niece.

“I pray you have mercy on the poor man,” Celeste replied, pitying Brother Cuthbert even more.

“Mercy?” Her aunt looked surprised at the very idea. “Lissa, am I not always the soul of understanding, tact and mercy?”

Celeste cleared her throat. “So you have often told my sisters and me,” she countered as diplomatically as possible.

“And so I shall be.” Another uneasy silence draped itself over them. Celeste made a move to leave, thinking her aunt needed to sleep, but the older woman’s grip remained firm around Celeste’s hand. “Sit still, child, for I have much to tell you, and there is so little time.”

Puzzled, Celeste leaned forward. “Oui, Aunt? I am listening.”

Marguerite patted her cheek. “You were always such a good girl. It is a pity that my brother was too pigheaded not to see it.”

Celeste shifted uncomfortably on the hard stool. All her life she had tried to please her formidable father, to win his love with her cheerful banter and her singing, which everyone else said was sweet as a meadowlark’s on a May morning. Though it had never been spoken aloud, Celeste knew that she was far from the chevalier’s favorite daughter. “Papa has a great many things to attend to,” she murmured in his defense.

“Bah! Let it be said plainly now, for I do not know when we shall meet again on this earth. Your father wished for a son, and when you, the fifth daughter, arrived, he was angered like a small boy who has been denied a promised sweetmeat. It is a scandal the way he has treated you—sending you off to this godforsaken place to be wed to a stranger who probably can’t even speak passable French!”

Celeste stared into the candle’s flame, trying to conjure up the face of this unknown bridegroom. The picture of Lancelot in a book in her father’s library swam into her imagination.

“The Ormonds are a noble family,” Celeste whispered to the flickering point of light. “Walter will possess the qualities of a fine lord, I am sure.”

“Quit your woolgathering! ” Marguerite’s voice echoed around the tiny room. “This bridegroom of yours is not some pretty picture. He is a real man—and that is the nut and core of what I must tell you!”

Celeste widened her eyes. She was not sure she wanted to hear whatever caused her aunt’s distress.

“Do not alarm yourself so, dearest Aunt,” she murmured, though her own heart beat faster.

“Ah, ma petite, I had thought there would be more time to speak of this later—before your wedding day. I promised your dear mama...” She ran her tongue across her lips.

“More water?” Celeste offered, a flutter of panic tickling her throat. What on earth could it be that curbed her aunt’s usually tart tongue and sent such shivers of fright through Celeste?

“Non, more words. Tell me truly, has anyone spoken to you of what passes between a man and his wife after they are married?”

Celeste blinked at the surprising question. “Why, love passes between the two. With God’s blessing, it grows as the years go by.”

Marguerite passed her free hand across her forehead, as if to wipe away the thought. “Sweet little fool! You have filled your mind with too many troubadours’ posies. Nay, I speak of the wedding night, when a man and woman lie together in bed. Have any of your sisters spoken of it to you?” Her voice held a note of hope.

“Non. Why should they?”

Marguerite blew out a long sigh. “I was afraid of this. It is no good to cosset young girls under glass, like delicate damask roses, then pluck them rudely out of their loving homes and expect them to enjoy it!”

“Aunt Marguerite? What are you trying to tell me?”

The lady squared her shoulders and seemed to grow larger against the pillows. “’Tis this and none other, child. On your wedding night, your husband will strip the clothes from your back, examine you as one does a horse for sale, then he will...he will...”

Never had Celeste known her aunt to falter in the telling of anything. “He will what?”

“He will unlace his tights, open his codpiece, and thrust his man-root between your legs, into the most private part of your body!”

“Oh!” Celeste gasped as a hot flush rose into her cheeks. The scene painted by her aunt sounded appalling. “Surely this is a rude jest, Aunt. It is cruel of you to tease me so!”

Marguerite’s lips trembled. “It is not a jest, but the plain truth. And you must let him do it, for that is his husbandly right. And I must warn you further.” Now that she had breached her initial embarrassment, there was no stopping the torrent of words that poured from her mouth as if from a rainspout. “You will experience pain and blood.”

Celeste shuddered, and gripped Marguerite’s hand. “Must this thing happen? Could we not merely kiss and whisper sweet loving words, and hold each other in the night? I thought that was what happened betwixt a husband and wife. I’ve seen such behavior with my parents.”

Marguerite’s lips drew back into a sliver of a smile. “Oui, if you are fortunate with your husband. And these kisses and cooings and such like are the honey of the marriage bed, but this other, this coupling—that is the meat and drink.”

“Why?” None of the beautiful books in her father’s library showed such a thing. Lovers kissed in flower gardens, held hands, entwined their arms about each other and slept together like the best of friends. No one had ever seen Celeste naked except her maid—certainly no man, not even her little brother, Philippe. “It is not natural!”

The older woman gave a dry cackle. “It is the most natural thing in the world. And the why of it? For the begetting of children! How did you suppose they get a start? Do not look so moon-faced, Lissa. In time you will grow to crave it—if your husband is a skilled lover. Of course, he is English, and I have heard it said they are not the wisest in this matter. Fah! Your father! You should have been married to a Frenchman, rather then sent off to the arms of a barbarian! There now, I’ve said my piece.”

“Good Aunt, what am I to do?” Celeste bit her knuckles.

Marguerite snorted. “Close your eyes, lie still. . .and think of sweet, fat babies.”

Celeste spent a restless night, tossing on the narrow, straw-filled mattress. Finally, she fell into a dreamless sleep. When the lauds bell woke her to the sight of a misty dawn creeping through her narrow window, the frightening conversation of the night before seemed merely a fragment of a nightmare. Only the images evoked by the words naked, pain and blood remained sharp in her mind.

Perhaps Aunt Marguerite’s long-dead husband had been something of a beast, Celeste concluded as she hastily dressed herself in her burgundy travel gown. Besides, this day promised to be a fine sunny one, and her unknown bridegroom was miles away, in deepest Northumberland. She would confront the problem of the wedding night when the moment—and the man—were at hand. In the meantime, she had more pressing problems—such as learning to tie up her laces by herself, learning to wrap her tongue around the harsh sounds of the English language and, most of all, learning a good deal more about her new travel companion, Brother Guy.

For the few days she had been a guest at Saint Hugh’s, Celeste had spotted the brother with the celestial face only for brief moments. He always seemed to be rushing somewhere. Once she had tried to speak with him—to thank him for his help on the day of the accident—and he had literally picked up the hem of his robe and run into the dark chapel. His beautiful face had had the most amusing expression on it as he fled.

Another time, while practicing her lute in the cloister garden, she had thought she saw his tall figure hovering behind one of the pillars. When she looked up again, no one had been there. At least the adorable Jeremiah liked her music and had taken to sunning himself on the bench beside her while she played. She would miss the cat’s company when she left the priory.

Her final leave-taking of her beloved aunt was brief, and full of the usual admonishments.

“Watch your funds carefully, Lissa, and don’t let these peasants cheat you.”

“No, dearest Aunt.”

“Remember you are a lady at all times. And practice your English, as well as your singing.”

“Oui.”

“Do not drive poor Gaston to distraction. He has his hands full enough with those clod-brained men of his.”

Celeste suppressed a smile. She suspected Gaston was secretly relieved not be to traveling with “Madame Wasp-Tongue,” as she knew he called her aunt behind her back.

“Be sure to brush your hair a hundred strokes before bedtime every night—no skimping, mind you. Keep your teeth clean, chew mint leaves before entering company, and you must promise me to attend your prayers. No daydreaming about knights in shining armor.”

Celeste chuckled. “How can I avoid praying, dearest Marguerite? I will be watched over by a priest. No doubt he will have me saying my paternosters all the way to Snape Castle!”

Marguerite slapped her hand playfully. “Do not tease the good brother. I understand he is sworn to a vow of silence, so do not plague him with endless chatter. He has no defense against you.”

Celeste cocked her head. “Such an odd vow! How am I supposed to practice my English with a silent Englishman for company? La! I swear, I’ll take no such vow to accompany him! I will talk for the both of us.”

“Lissa! Mind what I said—”

Brother Cuthbert’s arrival cut short all further instructions. The monk reported that Gaston and his men waited for the Lady Celeste by the lych-gate.

“I shall pray daily for your speedy recovery, dearest Aunt.” Celeste took her aunt’s hands in both of hers. The moment of parting had arrived, and she felt woefully unprepared for it. She wanted to say something memorable, something loving, but the words hung back like shy choirboys.

“Adieu, my heart.” Marguerite lifted her face for a last kiss. “I shall hold you in my thoughts, and pray they keep you safe in this miserable country.” She returned Celeste’s kisses on both cheeks, then gave herself a little shake. “You, Brother Cuthbert! I have a bone or two to pick with you. First, let us discuss your wine cellar.”

Celeste grinned as she slipped out the door, leaving the poor monk to his own defenses. At least Aunt Marguerite had not again mentioned that awful idea of the wedding night. Perhaps it had merely been rambling talk brought on by one of Brother Cuthbert’s potions for pain. After receiving a blessing from Father Jocelyn and giving Jeremiah a final hug and a kiss, Celeste skipped out to the lych-gate where Gaston waited to hand her up onto her dappled gray palfrey.

An unabashed giggle bubbled up from her throat when she caught sight of Brother Guy. His loose brown robe hiked up to his thighs, he sat astride a meek-looking little donkey. His long bare legs dangled on either side, almost touching the ground. A thunderous expression clouded the brother’s angelic face. When he heard her inadvertent laughter, he stared up at the blue-washed skies and appeared to be already deep in prayer.

Celeste rolled her eyes in silent exasperation at Gaston. Oh, la, la! This adventure would not turn into a somber, psalm-singing journey—not if she could help it.

Chapter Four

How long had it been since he had last ridden beyond the walls of Saint Hugh’s? As the little party crested the hill, Guy looked back over his shoulder at the squat priory buildings. Bluebells had dotted the fields with splashes of spring color when he first came down this road, going in the opposite direction. He recalled that his heart had been as light as the April breezes that ruffled his hair. Now a cold north wind blew across the bare patch of his novice’s tonsure. He had not expected to leave Saint Hugh’s until that distant day when God called him to his final rest and his fellow monks carried his shrouded body out the lych-gate for burial.

A small, traitorous emotion fluttered within his breast as he inhaled the autumn’s earthy smells and the scent of a peasant’s woodsmoke. With a pang of guilt, Guy shook off the sudden pleasure he took in savoring the crisp air, the clean open sky, the harvested fields rolling to the horizon—and the disturbing company of the young lady who insisted upon riding beside him.

He cast Lady Celeste a surreptitious glance out of the corner of his eye and discovered with a sharp jolt that she examined him with an equal keenness.

“Bonjour, mon frère!” she sang in a lilting voice. Her deep purple eyes sparkled as amethyst crystals in a sunbeam. “I mean...” She paused for a moment, her delicate dark brows furrowed with some inner struggle. “Goo morrning, Broozer Guy.” She drew out the English syllables, then cocked her head, reminding him of a clever robin waiting for a bounty of bread crumbs. “Well? Did I not say it correctly?” she asked in French.

Guy blinked. Was she expecting him to give her English lessons? By the look on that lovely young face, he realized that she did. Hadn’t anyone told her about his vow?

She sighed with an uniquely French eloquence. “La, Brother Guy! You need only nod or to shake your head at my pronunciation. Is that too hard for you? It is a little nod, like this.” She demonstrated, with a sly grin turning up the corners of her full mouth. “Or a mere shake, like so.” She moved her head slowly from side to side, her gaze never leaving his face. “Goo morrning, Broozer Guy,” she repeated.

He blew out his cheeks. They were scarcely a mile from the haven of Saint Hugh’s, and already the little witch tempted him. Guy considered the long road ahead of them. Three hundred miles to Snape Castle, by his reckoning. He groaned inwardly.

“Hey-ho, Broozer Guy!” Her words, like warm raindrops, pattered through his musings.

No peace! He shot her his haughtiest look and shook his head. Her smile disappeared, and he was instantly sorry for its loss. She looked as if he had just struck her. Lesson one: Lady Celeste did not take criticism well.

“Was it the good-morning or your name that was not well-done?” she asked in French, with a toss of her head. The accompanying breeze lifted her veil, revealing the wealth of blue-black hair beneath.

Guy sighed again. Her prattle would drive him witless before Shrewsbury. At least her voice was pleasant on the ear.

“Goo morning,” she repeated with a determined glare.

Guy inclined his head slightly. Perhaps she would take her small victory and reward him with blessed silence.

“Bon!” Celeste clapped her hands. “Broozer Guy?” she continued.

Guy shuddered and shook his head. Unhooking his slate from his belt, he let go of Daisy’s reins long enough to print out Brother on it, underlining the th. He held out the slate for her perusal.

“Bro—” The pink tip of her tongue appeared enticingly between her white teeth.

Guy looked away quickly, though he could still see its wetness in his mind’s eye as he listened to her draw out the th for an eternity.

“Bro-th-er, oui?” She finally released the poor word from her mouth.

Guy nodded, then nudged Daisy’s belly with his bare knee. Perhaps the English lesson, which showed every promise of lasting until hell froze over, would be terminated if she saw only his back. He squared his shoulders as he moved ahead of her. Better this way. He didn’t have to look at her, to see those mysterious purple eyes full of secrets, the blush of a midsummer’s rose on her cheeks, or the curve of those luscious, full lips, which—

Guy ground his teeth together. Great Jove! From where had those secular thoughts sprung? He must not permit them to intrude again. He had renounced all cravings of his body six months ago.

A small sound behind him pricked his attention: a pent-up burst of air, followed by several others in quick succession. Was she crying? Had he offended her by riding ahead so abruptly? Churl! He glanced over his shoulder to apologize and saw that Celeste had covered her mouth with one gloved hand. Hearing her suppressed giggles, he realized that he was the source of her mirth. At that moment, a throaty laugh escaped her.

“Your pardon, Brother Guy, but it is too amusing!” She laughed again. Some of the men-at-arms nearby grinned at the contagious sound. “Your poor, poor little donkey! It is very hard to tell if she has four legs—or six! In truth, good Brother, you could walk all the way to Northumberland and still be sitting astride!” Full-blown gales of laughter punctuated this last remark. The escort joined in her mirth.

Guy scowled. Had the chit no respect for a man of the church, that she would laugh at his humble means of transportation? He looked down at Daisy’s neck, with its rough ridge of a mane. Memories of Moonglow, his gray war-horse, rose in his mind. If this minx of a girl had but seen him astride that noble steed, she would never have laughed at him. Nay, she would have been frightened half to death. Smiling at the thought, he kneed Daisy into a faster walk. The donkey, a devil despite her meek facade, blew a loud, wet snort of protest through her nostrils.

“Oh, la, la! I have offended you, Bro-ther Guy?” The lady hurled the th sound after him. “Did they cut out your sense of humor when they shaved your tonsure?”

Guy chose to ignore her. He was bound to escort her to Snape Castle; he was not obliged to like her. In fact, a little mutual aversion might be healthier for the sake of his soul. Gaston, riding ahead of Guy, grinned over his shoulder at him before returning his attention to the meandering roadway ahead.

How wise Father Jocelyn had been to invoke this vow of silence! Had he not been so constrained, Guy knew, he would have broken a number of the holy Commandments by now. His long frame rattling with each plodding step the donkey took, Guy rode in stoic silence. They said the Blessed Mother had ridden a donkey all the way from Nazareth to Bethlehem when she was nine months pregnant with the Holy Infant. How on earth had she stood it?

Behind him, Lady Celeste maintained a surprising silence. Guy relaxed his shoulders. Perhaps she felt some remorse for her laughter and would maintain her own silence until eventide. Guy fervently hoped so.

A fly tickled his ankle. He shook his leg, then squinted against the sun at the milepost ahead. How many miles was it to the next town? The fly returned, this time landing on the back of his calf. Repressing the urge to swat at it, he shook his leg again. Saint Francis of Assisi, patron of his order, enjoined that the monks should respect the natural world and all its creatures, one of which was “Brother Fly.”

I’m being tested, Guy thought as the annoying Brother Fly moved up to roam at the open nape of his neck. He waved his hand at it. Respect all God’s creatures, great and small. The fly hovered at the sensitive skin behind his ear. Guy waggled his head to and fro. Why didn’t Brother Fly pester Lady Chattering Magpie instead? Again he shook his head at the persistent insect. His conscience pricked him. It was wrong of him to wish ill upon the lady—or upon the poor fly, for that matter. She probably would have no compunctions about killing it. The fly landed on the bald patch of his tonsure. Guy brushed his fingers over it. Why couldn’t the creature bother Daisy? Weren’t flies supposed to be drawn to horses and their kin? They deserved each other. The persistent insect tickled his tonsure again.

One of the rear men-at-arms guffawed. Guy heard the other two shush him, though there was an odd tenor to their hissing. Suspicion formed in the back of Guy’s mind. More noises, sounding for all the world like a number of fools’ wind bladders, confirmed his theory. When next Brother Fly touched his ear, Guy whirled in his saddle.

Celeste froze, her eyes wide with surprise. In her hand, she held a long stalk of roadside grass, its downy tip inches from Guy’s shoulder. He opened his mouth, remembered his vow in time, then pressed his lips tightly together.

“Poor Brother Guy!” Celeste murmured, recovering her composure. She held up the offending grass as if it were a queen’s scepter. “What? Nary a smile? Not even the barest movement of your lips? Pah!” She sighed as she tossed the grass away. “Surely a smile is not breaking your vow of silence, good Brother? A smile is very quiet.”

Her eyes sparkled with merry mischief, and her bowed mouth curled upward before it broke into a beguiling grin. Sweet Lord! How could any man resist such a charming aspect—even if she was just a mere girl!

“I ask you this, Brother Guy,” she continued, as her smile increased in warmth. “If the good God above did not want us to laugh, why did he make it so pleasant to do so? Oui, it is easier by far to laugh than to frown, n’est-ce pas?” Cocking her head again, she regarded him through her long dark lashes.

Guy stared at her without moving a facial muscle, though his lips quivered to return her smile with one of his own. By the rood! Celeste had played a goodly trick on him with her piece of grass. In an earlier time, he would have—Nay! He could not give in to her teasing. Their journey together had just begun. He must maintain a firm upper hand. Pride goeth before the fall, a little voice whispered in the back of his mind.

The travelers picnicked in the forenoon by a clear spring that bubbled out of a cleft in the rocks before it continued on its rushing way to the sea, sixty miles to the southwest. The October breeze held the last warmth of the year, and wanton puffs of wind occasionally lifted the light veil covering the lady’s hair. A few stray tendrils of black silk had worked their way loose from the confines of her French hood, and these tantalizing bits of beauty kissed her cheeks as the breezes did what Guy’s fingers longed to do. Catching his wandering thoughts before they continued to their natural conclusion, Guy withdrew from the lady and her men. Seated on a grassy knoll beside the spring, Guy looked heavenward and began to say the office for the sext hour.

Behind him, he heard the low murmur of French, punctuated by male laughter. Daisy and the horses champed on the clumps of grass with noisy satisfaction. Above him, a flock of wild geese winged southward, to the warmer climes of Spain, honking their progress as they flew. An idyllic day. Just the sort of day Guy used to go a-hawking. In his mind’s eye, he saw his favorite female peregrine soar from his wrist into the polished blue overhead, then pause at the zenith of her ascent. She could hang in the air, as if frozen in place—a black dot against the canopy of the sky. Then, folding her wings, she would drop at tremendous speed, snatching a dove in flight, before the gentle bird ever realized her fate.

Guy closed his eyes against the beauty of the day, trying to shut out images of bygone pleasures—pleasures he had happily renounced only a few months ago.

“Brother Guy?” Her husky voice swooped upon his thoughts as surely as his hawk had attacked the dove. Slowly, he opened his eyes.

“Does your vow also mean you do not eat?” Lady Celeste proffered a fine linen napkin on which she had arranged a tempting choice of bread, baked that morning in the priory’s kitchen, wedges of apple, a soft white cheese and a half breast of cold roasted chicken. “If you grow faint with hunger and fall off that most ridiculous animal of yours, none of us will be able to lift you up again. You are far too... large.”

Her gaze roved unashamedly over him, pausing at his shoulders, then moving down across his chest. Though she stood more than three feet away, he swore he could feel a searing heat wherever she looked. The lady blinked, then glanced away, instead of pursuing her assessment below his rough hemp belt. “In truth, you are quite the tallest of our company,” she concluded with a delicate shrug of her shoulders, a careless movement that Guy found too enchanting.

“Your wretched beast has my deepest sympathies” Celeste thrust the food at him. “Eat, good Brother. Here is wine—good French wine.” She held out a small clay cup, brimming with a ruby liquid. The sweet wines of France had been one of his earliest downfalls, when he first encountered them years ago, while attending King Henry at the fabulous Field of Cloth of Gold. Guy’s taste buds quivered treacherously.

Shaking his head, he gently pushed the cup away, pointing to the spring. Her black-winged brows rose high across her forehead. “You drink water? Fah!” She wrinkled her face in disgust as she regarded the sparkling stream gushing a fat jet from the rocks. “The water of England is not drinkable,” she pronounced in clear tones of authority. “And even if it were, this damp climate would not encourage the drinking of it. Here, Brother Hardhead.”

She placed her food and wine on the grass beside him, then turned away with a wide sweep of her burgundy skirts. “Eat, and give thanks.” She tossed the words over her shoulder as she picked her way back through the grass. “Or starve and so go to the devil!”

Guy struggled to repress his grin. What a little spitfire she was! Good! The lady would need every spark of spirit, if she was to survive the gloom of Snape Castle and the hands of her betrothed, Walter Ormond. The sweet taste of her apple turned sour in Guy’s mouth as he remembered the last time he had seen Walter.

Ormond had been near twenty then, though his behavior had suggested five or six years younger. His father’s eldest son, Walter had fancied he cut a fine figure amid Great Harry’s sumptuous court, when, in truth, the nobles had laughed at him behind his back. Their humor had turned to mocking soon enough, and from there to animosity, except for Walter’s small group of preening hangers-on. In a self-indulgent court where the royal pleasure commanded dancing, cardplaying, masques and hearty good times, Walter’s gambling debts, overindulgence in expensive wines and obnoxious behavior had soon drawn disgust within the highest circles.

As to women, the servants had gossiped that young Ormond mounted them like a shameless dog—here, there and everywhere. Such behavior had made a deep impression—and one not long tolerated. Within two short years, Walter had managed to get himself banished not only from court, but from London, as well.

That had been four years ago, and if the rumors wafting around the gaming tables and the tiltyard were to believed, “Ormond’s Spawn” had not yet learned his lesson, but, instead, continued his wastrel ways in the north. There, far from the refinements of the courtly life, Walter had sunk into coarser pursuits.

Guy could barely swallow the crusty bread as he considered the odious embrace into which he led the lady. How long would it take Ormond to curb her saucy humor? When would those twinkling purple eyes be filled with perpetual tears? How soon would the bloom in her cheeks turn to ashen gray and dark circles settle themselves under her eyes? And how many years would it be before the little French bird would give up her light spirit within Snape’s cold stone walls?

Unthinking, Guy snatched the cup from the grass and downed its contents in one ferocious gulp. The Bordeaux’s unaccustomed tang smarted, making his eyes water. By Saint George, he hadn’t meant to drink her wine! Nor to eat her good cheese and sweet fruit. He had promised himself to dine only on bread and water, in penance for his wandering thoughts. He caught himself before he dashed the cup against the rocks. What injury had the cup done him? Nay, ’twas the little temptress’s spell that wove itself about him. A trill of her laughter brought him back to the present. With a quick prayer, asking for strength and forgiveness, Guy rose and ambled back to the group.

“Eh bien!” Gaston grinned at the sight of the empty cup in Guy’s hand. “It is good you eat and drink well. Forgive my bluntness, Brother Guy, but from the looks of those shoulders, you would have made a better knight for your king than for the good Lord. Those hands were made to draw a bow, hold a sword or stroke a—” Gaston broke off with an abrupt fit of coughing that left his countenance even ruddier than before.

Maintaining his composure, Guy stared over the sergeant’s shoulder, as if he had no idea what the remainder of Gaston’s observation might have been. The lady, either unmindful of the implied remark or choosing to ignore it, stood and brushed a few crumbs from her gown.

“Do not tease the good brother so, Gaston,” she remarked mildly, attacking the th sound with a sharp thrust of her tongue. “His shoulders must be wide enough to carry the weight of all our sins with him when he prays for us. N’est-ce pas, Brother Guy?” A flutter of mirth danced on her lips.

Inside the long sleeves of his robe, Guy clenched his fists, digging his nails into his palms. His heart hammered against his chest. How long, O Lord, will I be able to resist her? When his breathing became more steady, he pointed to the sky, then to the horses.

“Oui, he is right, my lady.” Gaston gave her his arm. “The sun does not wait for us. We must hurry on, if we are to reach a decent inn before dark.”

“I hope the days to come are as pleasant as this one,” the lady remarked as Gaston helped her into the saddle. She arched one eyebrow at Guy when he settled himself once more on Daisy’s bony back. “I do enjoy such gladsome company. And so we shall make merry all the way to Snape Castle.” She urged her horse into a walk.

I should be escorting you to my home, Lissa, and not into the maw of the Ormonds.

That thought from nowhere seared his mind like a flaming arrow. Its sharpness and heat so amazed him, Guy reined Daisy to a halt and found himself sneezing in the dust of the mended wagon as the lady and her luggage ambled past him along the king’s post road.

By the holy Book, was he fast losing his wits?

Chapter Five

“For shame, Brother Guy!” Celeste clucked her tongue at him. “Why must you frown on such a pretty afternoon? God saw fit to give you a...” She paused as she surveyed him intently. “A passable face, but you mar it with a sour look.”

Guy could only grimace his frustration. Couldn’t she leave him alone? Why didn’t she talk to Gaston, or one of the other men? Guy squinted into the sun. Two more hours of good light before they would have to start looking for lodging. Surely she could do something else in that time besides concentrating her entire attention upon him. Where were her manners? Hadn’t anyone ever told her she shouldn’t make personal remarks, especially to men she barely knew?

“Poor Brother Guy,” Celeste continued ignoring his unsociability. “Perhaps the wine at noon did not agree with his digestion. What think you, Starlight?” Leaning over her horse’s neck, she spoke into its pricked ear. All the while, her eyes twinkled with lavender amusement.

What in the name of all the saints was a mere man supposed to do? She knew he wasn’t allowed to speak. Guy ducked to avoid her pretty eyes. A girl like that shouldn’t possess such winsome weapons. In truth, Guy could not recall another pair of eyes that had glowed with such a joy of life. One glance from her and a man could declare himself drunk from the experience. Her eyes were beautiful, so full of fire, so full of passion, so full of the promise of—

God forgive him! What was he doing meditating on the eyes of a little black-haired temptress? No doubt his thoughts wandered because he had not been near a woman for over six months. In truth, women bored him, didn’t they? What was more, not one of his former dalliances possessed an ounce of virtue or honor. Nor did this lady, who was not only female—but French! Guy kicked Daisy in the flanks, much harder than he intended.

The donkey snorted at the sudden command for more speed. Uttering an offensive sound not fit for polite company, Daisy lowered her head and dug her hooves into the dirt of the road. Before Guy realized her intent, she kicked out with her back legs, tossing her rider over her ears. Guy landed headfirst in a ditch. For almost a full minute, his ears rang with the chiming of a hundred cathedral bells and he saw swirling stars instead of the blue sky.

As the clanging subsided and the heavens regained their correct color, Guy realized that his loose gown had fallen around his ears. The cold air blowing across his bare backside told him that a very private part of his anatomy had made an unexpected appearance. A rich peal of feminine laughter confirmed his worst suspicions.

Rolling over, he struggled to sit up, despite the fact that the landscape tended to tilt sideways.

“Magnifique!” Celeste laughed with unabashed humor. Gaston and the men-at-arms joined her. “Forsooth, Brother Guy, I have never seen such... such... ” Another fit of merriment overcame her.

A string of dormant oaths crowded behind Guy’s lips as he pulled himself into a standing position. He clamped his teeth tightly together to keep back the tide of his righteous anger.

“Such a beautiful moon in the middle of the day!” The chit managed to complete her sentence before erupting into another gale of laughter.

The tips of Guy’s ears burned as a hot flush spread itself up from his neck. Perdition take the girl! For a farthing, he would haul the little vixen off her horse, turn her over his knee and soundly administer a well-deserved chastisement to her backside. How dare she laugh at him!

Guy clambered out of the ditch. His fingers shook with suppressed rage as he snatched up the reins of the innocent-looking donkey. Turning his back to her, he slowly remounted the creature. Surely Father Jocelyn could not have foreseen this situation when he placed the novice under his vow of silence. Guy itched to let loose a torrent of words that would truly shock the brazen minx.

“Peace, my lady,” Gaston hissed at her. “See? You have offended the good brother. What would your aunt say to this behavior?”

Celeste managed to stifle her laughter in a series of hiccups before answering. “Gaston! You know very well what she would do. While she scolded me with her tongue, her eyes would have enjoyed the same view as much as mine. Perhaps even more so. In truth, I have never seen...”

Gaston. cleared his throat loudly, then glared at the other men, who were still sniggering at the memory of the monk’s naked show. “You crawling vermin!” he shouted. “Are you paid to idle about? Be off with you!”

He punctuated his order with several blistering oaths. Just listening to their richness and variety made Guy feel better. It pleased him even more to see how Celeste blushed at Gaston’s curses. Good! If the girl was going to act like a common serving wench, she deserved to have her sensitivities shocked in return.

Holding his head high and squaring his shoulders, Guy nudged the now-placid Daisy into a walk. Laugh at his backside? No woman of his considerable experience had ever found his nakedness a rude jest! They had complimented his goodly proportions and firmness in all areas. They had squealed and giggled with delight upon personal inspection of his nether regions. Most particularly, their supple fingers had given pleasurable approval to his hindquarters. Not once had any woman, high-born or lowborn, laughed at the sight of his most sensitive area—until now.

What a sweep of vanity!

A niggling little voice whispered its rebuke. True, vanity was sin, and he should pay the price for it. But must her amusement be his penance? Guy swallowed the bile that lurked in the base of his throat. Perhaps he should say a few prayers to calm his soul’s turmoil. Upon reflection, he amended that thought. He needed to storm heaven’s gate with a quiver full of litanies begging forgiveness for his unseemly thoughts and beseeching patience to deal with his charge.

“Good Brother Guy.” Celeste’s husky voice spoke close behind his shoulder. Gone was her comic pronunciation of his name. Did he detect a new note in her tone?

“Good Brother, please forgive me,” she continued. Her lilting accent made the language sing. Guy glanced in her direction.

If anything, Celeste’s eyes looked even more enormous—twin pools of crushed violets, watered by a sheen of tears that he could see hovering about her thick lashes. The shameless jade of a moment ago had now changed into a fairy creature. Her pale skin, those teary eyes and her rosy mouth, trembling with her contrition, made Celeste appear like the virgin in a tapestry who lured the unsuspecting unicorn to her side. A mixture of emotions played havoc with Guy’s body. In some places he hardened and burned, while in others he melted into the folds of his woolen gown. His vocal cords begged to murmur sweet nothings in her ear. He swallowed again.

“Frère Guy,” she entreated, leaning across her horse to him. He stared straight ahead. “Bless me, good Brother, for I have sinned most grievously. Forgive my laughter at your misfortune, and my disgraceful conduct afterward.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her mouth twitch at the remembrance of that very behavior for which she now sought forgiveness. Licking her lips with that enticing pink tongue, she wiped away the suggestion of an uncontrite giggle.

“I am heartily sorry for having offended you, particularly as you are a man of God. Please forgive me, Brother Guy, and give me a penance, that I may show you my true sorrow for the transgression.”

Penance? Sweet Saint Anne! She was not merely asking for forgiveness, but for the full sacramental rite. Cold beads of perspiration popped out on his forehead. Did Celeste think him to be a priest, and so felt her laughter a true sin of disrespect, perhaps even sacrilege? Guy’s momentary shock melted into something entirely different—a smug anticipation of revenge.

Gravely he nodded at Celeste, then made the sign of the cross over her bowed head. Wicked! the little voice twittered in Guy’s conscience. Not so. He told himself he was merely giving her what she craved, absolution, as well as what she needed—a lesson in humility.

“Merci, bon frère. And for my penance?”

How could he possibly deny her request? Taking out his slate and chalk, he quickly wrote on it, then handed it over to her.

“Ma foi! Fifty Ave Marias?”

Guy tried not to smile at her appalled expression.

“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.

Guy stepped closer to her and sent a scorching look at the jostling assembly. Jesu!, This was only the first night! He would be lucky to get her to Snape Castle in one piece, at this rate. And why did she have to possess such a fine leg? He promised himself he would sleep without bedding tonight in penance for the pleasure he took in the revelation of that dainty part of her.

Celeste smoothed her skirts, then cocked her head at the innkeeper. “Now, monsieur, do I ’ave the room?” Smiling, she fluttered her lashes again. “The best in the ’ouse, oui?”

“My pleasure, m’lady,” he all but slobbered.

“I also ’ave men, ’orses, and the wagon?” Her smile became broader.

“The stable lad will see to them. ’Tis a shilling a horse.”

Celeste looked to Guy for approval.

Glaring at the landlord, the monk shook his head. The man was nothing less than a highway brigand. Guy held up four fingers, then all ten.

“Ah, the good Brother Guy say three shillings for all our ’orses, and my men-at-arms—weeth supper, oui? ’E is a man of God, monsieur, and is très ’onest.”

Repressing a smile at her bargaining skills, Guy nodded in agreement. The landlord glanced at the giant monk, then to the grim-faced sergeant, and finally to the dimpled lady. He threw up his hands in resignation.

“I’ll be a-standing in line at the dole hatch yet, and no mistake, but seein’ that ye’ve men-at-arms, I trust ye to be a lady of—” He flushed and glanced at the hem of her gown, which now primly concealed the yellow silken leg. “Of quality. ’Tis me best room, at your service. Second floor, at the end of the hall.”

Celeste produced a groat from her reticule, which hung from her waist. Taking the landlord’s beefy hand in both of hers, she pressed the coin into his palm. “Merci, monsieur. And there will be ’ot water and a fire and supper, all in an instant, oui?”

“Oui,” the man gasped, not even noticing the size of the tip he grasped. Several of the onlookers thumped their wooden cups on the oaken table with noisy good humor.

“Lady Celeste, a wise soldier knows when it is time to withdraw. That time is now.” Gaston looked to Guy, who nodded his agreement.

Good for you, Gaston! Get her out of sight before she stirs up too much unwelcome interest. Slipping his hand under Celeste’s elbow, Guy guided her firmly toward the stairs. As they ascended, her smothered giggles surprised him.

“I did well, non?”

Guy looked straight ahead, though he curled his fingers tighter around her arm. He strove to ignore what his practiced touch told him lay inside the velvet sleeve. She felt warm and soft, yet a current of wildfire coursed through her being—a promise of passion that would set a man’s soul blazing. Jesu! He must kneel half the night in solemn prayer for harboring such tempting sweet thoughts.

The room proved to be surprisingly well appointed. Firewood lay stacked on the hearthstone, waiting to be laid. A tinderbox promised relief from the chill night air. A stout table and two plain chairs sat before the fireplace. Celeste gave a small chirp of pleasure when she spied the large canopied bed in one corner.

“C’est bon!” she pronounced as she prodded the coverlet. “Clean linen, and the mattress feels as if it has been newly stuffed.” Leaning over, she investigated the underside. “New roping, and the chamber pot is clean. This landlord keeps a good inn.”

Without further ado, she began to push the saddlebag under a corner of the mattress. Guy glanced at Gaston, his brows raised in surprised query.

“Lady Celeste’s dowry, good Brother.” Gaston knelt at the fireplace and began to lay several of the split logs on the iron dogs.

A thick piece of ice felt lodged in the back of Guy’s throat. By all the devils in hell, was the silly creature carrying a large bag of gold as if it were a change of stockings? What could her father have been thinking, to send her off with only a few men and such a fortune? And why wasn’t Gaston more concerned? Guy shot a fierce look at the sergeant’s back.

Celeste’s honeyed laughter rippled over him. “Oh, la, la, Gaston! If you could see what a fearful face our good Brother Guy just made!”

His glare at her only provoked more laughter.

“Hey-ho, mon frère! Now what have I done to so displease you? In truth, I have said all my penance, and I do not laugh at your... that is, at you again.”

Guy pointed at the saddlebag, which poked out from under the covering. Celeste arched one sable brow.

“My dowry? But surely you expected that I would have it with me.” Her lips pursed together into a delectable pout, though her eyes twinkled.

Such kissable lips! Guy caught himself wondering if any young nobleman of France had savored the sweetness of those lips. Frowning more to himself than to Celeste, he snapped his fingers, then pointed to the bag.

“You wish to see my dowry?” Celeste cocked her head. Gaston regarded Guy with a thoughtful expression.

“Let him see what you carry, my lady,” the old soldier suggested softly. “Since we have been given into his charge, he should know all. As you said, he is a man of God, and honest.” Gaston unsheathed his dagger, studying its keen edge as if he had never seen it before.

Celeste shrugged, then pulled the bag out from under the mattress. “D’accord. I agree.” She plopped it on the table, then slid it toward Guy. “I fear it is not the treasure of the Eastern kings.” While Guy fumbled with the buckle, she strolled to the window.

After opening the flap, Guy withdrew a blue leather box; neither its flatness nor its light weight denoted a chest of coins. Lifting the lid, he frowned at the contents with some confusion.

“Oui, good Brother,” Gaston remarked, in the same soft tone, though Guy detected a note of danger beneath it. “You see before you the worth my master has placed upon his youngest daughter.” The sergeant spat into the fire, causing it to hiss as if a small serpent lurked within the flames.

Though her back was to him, Guy saw Celeste stiffen.

Nestled on a bed of ivory satin were twelve silver apostle spoons, the tiny figures of the saints on the handles shining with a thin gilt wash. Picking up one, Guy recognized Saint James the Greater by the minute pilgrim’s staff clutched in his right hand. A pilgrim’s hat hung down his back, and a tiny dove, no bigger than a pin’s head, sat on the saint’s halo. From the nicks and scratches in the bowl of the spoon, Guy deduced that the set was not only old, but well-used. Though the silver appeared of good quality, he knew the collection was not an appropriate dowry for a French noblewoman. Holding out the spoon to Gaston, he questioned the old soldier with a lift of his brows.

“A christening present, I heard.” Gaston’s lip curled down. “And an old one, at that.”

Guy shoved his hand deeper into the saddlebag. Surely there must be something else besides this. A deed to a French estate, perhaps? Gaston chuckled without mirth.

“By the beard of Beelzebub, that’s the whole of it.” He spat again into the fire.

With her back still to him, Celeste spoke from her position by the window. “I have four older sisters, Brother Guy. They...” Her voice wavered for a split second. She cleared her throat, then continued in a stronger tone. “They made brilliant matches with some of the finest families in all of France. Their marriage contracts cost my father much more than anticipated. Then, when it seemed almost too late, my little brother, Philippe, was born. After that...” She turned around, her deep purple eyes piercing the distance between them.

“My father wished to protect the rest of the estate for his only heir. It is understandable. But I was still unspoken for. Then your King Henry came to Calais to meet with our King François at the Field of Cloth of Gold.”

Guy heard the note of awe in her voice. He, too, remembered that fortnight—or, at least, some of it. He had been a reckless twenty-year-old then, and eager to win his spurs in the tournaments. His angelic good looks, as well as his prowess with lance, sword and bow, had won him many prizes and far too much acclaim. The adulation had gone to his head as quickly as the good burgundy wines that flowed from the many fountains set up amid the colorful silken tents.

The ladies of both camps had made much of the tall young courtier from England. He had passed every night in the giggling company of the fair sex, who offered their own prizes in a much more intimate sport. Maids and matrons alike—not one of them had resisted when he wooed. Not one of them had pleaded honor, virtue or fidelity as he untied the laces of their shifts. Guy blinked to erase his lusty youth from his memory. That was behind him now—worth less than the trampled grass of that French meadow where kings had once played and strutted like peacocks.

Celeste stared into the fire, and its glow sparkled in the depths of her eyes. “Such a sight it was, Brother Guy! The world has never seen the like of that fairy-tale city of tents. By the time we returned home, I was betrothed to Walter Ormond, the son of an English lord.”

“English!” Gaston spat out the word like a curse.

“This midsummer, I passed my eighteenth birthday and, as agreed between my father and Sir Roger Ormond, I have journeyed here to wed my English lord. But...” She cast a long look at the spoon, which Guy still held between his fingers. “My father could not spare much for my dowry. There is Philippe, you see....”

She plucked another spoon from its satin nest and twirled it in the firelight. Guy saw that it was Saint Mark, with his open book and a small lion crouched at his feet. “They are quite pretty, n’est-ce pas? And the workmanship is fine.” She carefully replaced it among its fellows. “When Sir Roger meets me and sees what a good wife I will make his son, he will not mind too much if my dowry is small, do you think?” She looked at Guy, with hope coloring her expression.

His heart slammed against his chest. Sir Roger would have to be blind not to see what a pearl of great price the chevalier of Fauconbourg had thrown at the Englishman’s feet. But Guy knew the senior Ormond well enough. Clarity of sight was not one of the old man’s stronger points. The lord would be livid when Celeste finally arrived at Snape Castle and presented this paltry box to him. And was Walter counting on French golden ecus to buy him back into King Henry’s good graces? Would he take out his disappointment on the flesh of this sweet angel?

“While I do not have a wealth of gold in my bag, good Brother, I count my virtue, my loyalty and my honor as precious as jewels. Sir Roger is a good man, I am sure. Were I to arrive at his threshold in only my shift, with my spoons, he would still greet me as a worthy bride for his son. I know it, for is he not a knight, and so bound by the laws of chivalry?”

Guy tore his gaze from the depths of her eyes, his mouth working in silent protest. Your father is a bastard! he wanted to cry out to the sooty beams above their heads. And Sir Roger was no gentle knight of a romantic tale, but a grasping, thieving, murdering half savage who lived by his sword in the wilds of Northumberland.

No, sweet Lissa, Roger Ormond and his wastrel son will melt your little spoons for the few coins they will make and, after Walter has finished using your soft body for his perverted pleasures, he will toss you and your fine ideals into the mud with the slops.

Chapter Seven

The cold wind from the North Sea whined around the stone corners and through the chinks of Snape Castle’s dank chapel. His face as chill and unmoving as the walls surrounding him, Sir Roger Ormond watched the flames of thick beeswax candles flicker above the casket of his second wife as an age-bent priest muttered through the poetic sequence passages of the mass of the dead.

“Liber scriptus proferetur, in quo totum continetur, unde mundus judicetur,” he intoned in a reedy, nasal voice. Then shall written book be brought, showing every deed and thought; from which judgment will be sought.

Roger’s lip twitched. His one good eye stared at the rough-hewn wood that concealed the body of his wife. What thoughts had ever lingered in Edith’s goosedown brain? he wondered. The woman had barely ever whispered more than two sentences together. When she stood before the throne of God, what judgment could he render to such a coney rabbit as her? What deeds had she done, either good or bad, during the three-and-twenty years she had lived upon this earth, except to hover in the shadows and whimper when Roger visited her bed? Aye, the wench had been a ghost long before she died.

But the children... His eye moved from the larger coffin to the two smaller ones next to it. Somewhere deep inside him, a stinging pain thumped against his heart, as if a lute string, too tightly wound, had snapped, recoiling painfully upon the musician’s fingers. Edward, nearly five, and his sister, little Edith. Their mother accompanied her children in death. Roger sighed softly. Was it only two days ago they had clambered upon his knee, begging for the spiced wine-dipped sops from his trencher? How like little birdlings they had been, so rosy and bright, as they gobbled the dripping treats from his fingers!

Then had come the headaches: first the boy, then little Edith, and afterward, in the gloaming, their mother had pressed her temple against the cold stone of the stairwell and sworn she could not climb the curving steps. The children had cried that the hall spun about them like a whirligig, and Roger had seen their eyes grow too bright by the devil-dancing fire on the hearth. Roger had ordered them carried up to bed, the three tucked in together. In less than an hour, their bodies had poured forth a stinking sweat. Little Edith had raved that she saw a small boy, all clothed in gold, standing by the door, beckoning to her. Edward had moaned that his head was bursting. Their mother had said nothing, merely whispered the name “Jesu.”

Then, at the turn of the hourglass, the three had breathed as one and then were gone. The nurse, a superstitious old fool from the Border country, swore she had seen their spirits arise from the soaking bed and fly out the high arched window—the baby in her mother’s arms and Edward laughing and skipping before them.

Riders from York had warned Roger that the dread sweating sickness had stalked the cobbled streets of that fair city since late August, but he had ignored them. Even when he heard that the king’s paramour, Anne Boleyn, had been taken ill, Roger had shrugged off the news as only a tidbit of court gossip. There had never been an outbreak of that strange illness at Snape Castle, not even the year before, when so many in the southern shires had died. Suddenly, within the space of a week, Roger had lost a number of peasants who tilled the home fields, then some of the household in the laundry and pantry, then a groom, a gardener, and, last of all, death had reached out his bony hand and dared to take Roger’s own.

So merry at dinner the children had been; so very dead by that evening’s doleful supper.

“Judex ergo, cum sedebit, quidquid latet, apparebit. ..” The priest droned on. Before the Judge enthroned, shall each hidden sin be owned.

Roger shifted slightly, then glared at Edith’s coffin again. She had no sins, hidden or otherwise—of that much Roger was sure. She hadn’t had the wit to commit them. He, on the other hand... Zounds! Time enough for thinking of that later—when these same words were uttered over his own wooden box.

A snigger from his blind side distracted Roger’s morbid meditations. He shifted his position so that his son’s profile came within his line of sight. Of late, Walter had taken to staying on his father’s right hand, even though he had known from early childhood this annoyed Roger. Though his left eye was still as keen as a swooping hawk’s, Roger’s loss of the right bored deeply into his vanity. Where once a silver-gray eye had regarded the world in unison with its mate, now a jagged white scar pressed the lid shut, covering the empty socket. A Border cattle raid thirty-two years ago, during Roger’s youthful days, when both his judgment and his fighting skills were green, had left him half-blind and twice as wise.

With Edward and little Edith gone, his eldest son, Walter, remained the lone survivor of eight children — the result of Roger’s two misadventures in the marriage market. Women did not seem to last long here in the cold, wet north. Even as the funeral mass was being chanted, another woman—some chit from France—was on her way to Roger’s door. He wondered if Walter’s bride-to-be had put any meat on her bones since the last time he saw her, eight years ago. He remembered her as a scrawny pullet of nine or ten — all legs and arms, with large dark eyes and a high-pitched giggle. She had better be more filled out by now, or the winter would claim her before she got half a chance to breed Walter a son.

Walter chuckled again, trying to muffle the sound in the folds of his thick woolen cloak. Roger frowned at his son’s disrespect. Walter had never taken to his stepmother, but he should at least show the proper manners at her funeral. As Roger turned to glare at him, Walter lowered his head, drawing deeper into his clothing, like a tortoise into his shell.

Roger glared at the tall man next to him. Something was not quite right. He noted the pallor in Walter’s complexion, and the angry inflammation around his eyes. Sweet Christ! Not his only son! Feeling his father’s gaze upon him, Walter turned away. As he did so, the neck of his cloak slipped, revealing a small ulcerated lesion under his jawbone.

Roger clenched his teeth as he spied another sore behind Walter’s ear and a third creeping into his hairline. As for the hair itself, Roger noticed for the first time that it looked more like an old, moth-eaten fur than the healthy brown locks Walter took such care to comb and perfume. God’s teeth! The boy was riddled with the pox!

The bitter iron taste of bile rose in Roger’s throat. All his life he had devoted himself to one goal — to advance the Ormond family from that of the petty landless knight his father had been to one of England’s finest families, like that of his overlord, Sir Thomas Cavendish, earl of Thornbury. By the good fortune of riding on the victorious shirttails of Henry Tudor at Bosworth field, Roger’s father had been granted Snape Castle, a poor holding on the windswept northern moors. Through two advantageous marriages, as well as a number of savage raids on his weaker neighbors and across the Scottish border, Roger Ormond had managed to expand his father’s lands and increase the family fortune. Only fear of the powerful earl of Thornbury, whose vast domain now lay directly to the west of Snape Castle, kept the rapacity of the ambitious Ormonds at bay.

When Walter first arrived at Henry VIII’s court six years ago, all the world, it seemed, had eagerly spread out their costly cloaks at the feet of the handsome young man. Roger winced inwardly at the memory. How proud he had been to see his son and heir feted and fawned over by the great of the land! That pride had turned to gall all too soon. Roger could not remember a time when his anger had so choked him as when Walter came crawling back to Snape, whining of his ill-treatment at the hands of the king himself.

Roger had hoped the disgrace would straighten out the headstrong boy. Perhaps in time, and with gold, the damage to the family’s ambitions might be repaired. Instead, Walter had slunk into lower company and absented himself often from Roger’s watchful gaze. Now the ghastly piper demanded to be paid his dire reckoning. And the price? God’s nightshirt! What an ignoble end to such a promising beginning!

The priest had barely uttered the final Pax Domine when Walter turned on his heel to leave.

“Nay!” Roger’s hand clamped around his son’s wrist. “Whither away so quickly?”

“To ease my bladder, Father.” Walter’s thick cloak muffled the sting of his sneering reply. “Surely I do not need your permission to do that?”

“Then be quick about it. I will see you in my closet immediately after,” Roger growled, tightening his grip.

“I have an appointment elsewhere.” Walter broke his father’s grasp, then edged backward into the deeper shadows of the emptying chapel.

“Attend to it later. I will see you first.” Gathering his own cloak more tightly about him, Roger strode past the younger man. “Mark me, boy, or there will be the very devil to pay.”

Roger did not wait for a further reply, but stalked through the doorway.

In the chill outer corridor, Roger spoke to one of his retainers. “Wait upon my son, Grapper,” he instructed the burly man. “Make sure he is in my presence within a quarter of this hour.”

“Aye, master.” The servant touched his forelock.

“And if you must truss him like a bandy cock, then do so. I care not in what state he arrives, only that he comes.”

The retainer grinned, revealing a few yellowed teeth rooted in blackened gums. “’Tis my pleasure, sir.” With that, he hurried after Walter’s retreating figure.

“Your man laid hands upon me!” Walter’s fury choked his words.

Roger turned from the low fire where he had been warming himself after the cold of the burial service. “’Tis no surprise, since you were apprehended saddling your horse in the stable.”

Walter’s eyes blazed from the shadows cast by his low hood. “My appointment will not wait,” he rasped. A cloud from his breath hung in the damp air before him.

Roger slammed his fist down on the thick oaken tabletop, rattling the account ledgers stacked there. “Your doxy can wait until doomsday! Indeed, she is better off without your attentions.”

Walter’s shoulders shook with suppressed rage. “My business is mine own. I take it ill that you should question me. I am of age, and I do as I please.” He put his hand to the door latch of the tiny counting room.

Roger picked up a heavy clay inkpot and hurled it at his son. Walter swore a loud oath as the vessel missed his head by inches. Striking the door, the pot shattered; the ink splattered against the wood leaving a large black stain. Walter swore again when he saw that a number of thick drops had splashed onto his cloak.

“By the devil and his dam, you will not move until I give you leave!” Planting his palms on the table, Roger leaned across it toward his son. The distance between them rippled with his hot wrath. “Remove your cloak, knave!”

Walter backed away, nearly falling over a low three-legged stool. “The room is cold. I prefer to keep it on.”

“Your cloak, sluggard, or shall I have Grapper cut it from your back?”

Walter opened his mouth to make some retort, then thought better of it. Unbuckling the clasp, he swung the heavy cloth from his shoulders with a flourish. Holding it at arm’s length, he opened his hand, allowing the material to fall to the floor in a woolen puddle. He followed up with an elaborate bow, his right leg extended.

“Now take off your hat,” his father ordered in a low dangerous voice.

Walter’s eyes widened a moment before he assumed a cynical air. “Does my bonnet displease you, sir? Has my hatter been remiss? The color does not suit? I am most amazed.”

Roger drew himself up to his full height. At six feet three inches, he enjoyed his reputation as a giant among men. Over the years, he had found that his mere presence could intimidate his adversaries, and he often made it a point to use his height and bulk to his advantage. “Your hat, Walter. I shall not ask again.”

Backing against the wall, Walter snatched the black velvet bonnet from his head. He tossed it on top of his cloak. As he glared at his father, his eyes gleamed like twin daggers of heated Spanish steel.

Roger struck a flint to his tinderbox, and lighted the double-branched candlestick on his desk. Then he lit the candles on each side of the stone mantelpiece. The round tower room glowed with golden light.

Walter stared into the flames like a mesmerized moth. His tongue ran across his lips. “Are we celebrating the fair Edith’s death?”

Roger replaced the tinderbox precisely next to his sealing wax. “How dare you!” he whispered, staring at his son. To his surprise, Roger found himself enjoying this little scene. He couldn’t remember the last time Walter had looked so uncomfortable in his presence. “Have you no respect for the dead?”

“Only when you have respect for the living,” Walter snarled in reply.

Roger crossed around to the front of the table, like a cat stalking a mouse in the dairy. Walter slid along the wall, putting as much distance between them as the room allowed. “Remove your doublet,” Roger commanded in the same menacing whisper. “Be quick about it, knave. My quiver of patience is already spent this day.”

“Is this some jest, Father?” Walter’s gaze flickered across the closed door. “Is it your pleasure to freeze me to death?”

“If you were not my heir, I might be tempted to try it.” Roger drew his dagger from his belt and ran his finger lightly along the blade. “The hour runs apace. Take off your doublet, and your shirt, as well.”

Walter backed toward the fireplace. “Has your mind snapped in twain? I must give Edith more credit than I thought. I did not know you harbored so deep an affection for her that your brain has become sickly at her death.”

With a roar, Roger vaulted over the stool. Shoving one arm against the younger man’s throat, he pinioned his son against the wall. Ignoring Walter’s struggles, Roger slashed through the padded green velvet and the cinnamon-colored satin lining of Walter’s jacket. Within a minute, the expensive clothing hung in tatters from the young man’s shoulders. This violent action reduced Walter to frozen shock.

Grabbing his son by the scruff of his neck, Roger pulled him into the center of the light cast by the four candles. When he saw the profusion of open sores dotting Walter’s chest and disappearing below the drawstrings of his trunk hose, Roger nearly gagged. He pulled Walter’s head closer to the flames. His stomach turned sour at the sight of the bald patches shining through Walter’s close-cropped hair. A red mist rose up before Roger’s eyes, and a deep ringing filled his ears.

“You pernicious piece of a dungheap!” Roger followed up these words by slamming Walter once more against the coarse stone wall.

“What mean you?” Walter gasped, attempting to pry Roger’s finger’s from around his throat.

Roger suddenly released his son, who staggered to the stool and flung himself down upon it. The sting of scalding tears pricked at the older man’s eyelids, before he dashed them away. “How long have you had the pox?’

Walter picked up his cloak and drew it around his shivering shoulders.

Roger drew back one thick-booted foot and kicked the stool out from under his son. The wood splintered as Walter fell to the stone floor. “Where did you collect this souvenir of pleasure?” Roger growled. “At court? In the stews of London? Under a hayrack?”

Hugging the cloak, Walter scrambled away from the stamping feet.

“Answer me!” Roger roared. A vein at his right temple began to throb. By nightfall, he knew, he could expect another one of his vicious headaches. He ignored the warning. “When did you know you carried this... this filth?”

“’Tis but a rash.” Pulling himself to a standing position, Walter stared his father in the eye. “I have been scratching overmuch. ’Tis nothing but lice.”

A small part of Roger’s mind applauded his son’s impudence, though the fury of hellfire still burned through him. “Lice? Aye, that and more, from between a drab’s legs! Mince no words with me, hedgepig! I’ve seen enough of the world to know the pox. Have you sought treatment?”

Walter paused before answering, surprised at the turn of questioning. “A physician in York gave me mercury, though I think he sought to kill me, not to cure me.”

Roger turned toward the fire and stared into the glowing embers. “Too bad ’twas young Edward who died. ’Twould have been better if it had been you,” he said very softly, not caring whether Walter heard him or not. All his hopes and ambitions for the Ormonds had disappeared like the feeble smoke curling up the chimney.

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