Tori Phillips - Silent Knight

“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.