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