Tori Phillips - Silent Knight

“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.”