Tori Phillips - Silent Knight

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.