Silent Knight. Tori Phillips

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СКАЧАТЬ 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. СКАЧАТЬ