be his penance? Guy swallowed the bile that lurked in the base of his throat. Perhaps he should say a few prayers to calm his soul’s turmoil. Upon reflection, he amended that thought. He needed to storm heaven’s gate with a quiver full of litanies begging forgiveness for his unseemly thoughts and beseeching patience to deal with his charge.
“Good Brother Guy.” Celeste’s husky voice spoke close behind his shoulder. Gone was her comic pronunciation of his name. Did he detect a new note in her tone?
“Good Brother, please forgive me,” she continued. Her lilting accent made the language sing. Guy glanced in her direction.
If anything, Celeste’s eyes looked even more enormous—twin pools of crushed violets, watered by a sheen of tears that he could see hovering about her thick lashes. The shameless jade of a moment ago had now changed into a fairy creature. Her pale skin, those teary eyes and her rosy mouth, trembling with her contrition, made Celeste appear like the virgin in a tapestry who lured the unsuspecting unicorn to her side. A mixture of emotions played havoc with Guy’s body. In some places he hardened and burned, while in others he melted into the folds of his woolen gown. His vocal cords begged to murmur sweet nothings in her ear. He swallowed again.
“Frère Guy,” she entreated, leaning across her horse to him. He stared straight ahead. “Bless me, good Brother, for I have sinned most grievously. Forgive my laughter at your misfortune, and my disgraceful conduct afterward.”
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her mouth twitch at the remembrance of that very behavior for which she now sought forgiveness. Licking her lips with that enticing pink tongue, she wiped away the suggestion of an uncontrite giggle.
“I am heartily sorry for having offended you, particularly as you are a man of God. Please forgive me, Brother Guy, and give me a penance, that I may show you my true sorrow for the transgression.”
Penance? Sweet Saint Anne! She was not merely asking for forgiveness, but for the full sacramental rite. Cold beads of perspiration popped out on his forehead. Did Celeste think him to be a priest, and so felt her laughter a true sin of disrespect, perhaps even sacrilege? Guy’s momentary shock melted into something entirely different—a smug anticipation of revenge.
Gravely he nodded at Celeste, then made the sign of the cross over her bowed head. Wicked! the little voice twittered in Guy’s conscience. Not so. He told himself he was merely giving her what she craved, absolution, as well as what she needed—a lesson in humility.
“Merci, bon frère. And for my penance?”
How could he possibly deny her request? Taking out his slate and chalk, he quickly wrote on it, then handed it over to her.
“Ma foi! Fifty Ave Marias?”
Guy tried not to smile at her appalled expression.
“That will take me hours to say!”
He fervently hoped so—perhaps even until suppertime.
Celeste lost count somewhere past the thirty-seventh Ave. Fah! The late afternoon was too lovely to spend with one’s head bowed over the neck of a horse. Rolling her shoulders back to ease the tension in her muscles, Celeste shifted in her saddle and gazed at the road in front of her—and at a pair of wide shoulders clothed in a coarse brown woolen habit.
How very big Brother Guy was! Celeste grinned as she enjoyed the sight of his well-proportioned calves, which gripped the donkey’s sides. She wondered if the monk could run very fast, especially in that cumbersome robe. What would he think if she challenged him to a race? At L’Étoile, Celeste had always beaten her sisters whenever they managed to avoid the disapproving eye of Aunt Marguerite and ran down the long, grassy allée in the garden. Her gaze traveled up his back and rested on the tan bald patch of his tonsure. What would Brother Guy look like if all his hair grew back in? Such a golden color! She sighed.
Was his hair soft or rough to the touch? It looked soft as a baby’s, but his body proclaimed him a man. She shook herself and said another Ave Maria quickly. She wondered if it was wrong to stare at a monk’s body that way.
Such broad shoulders! Did his mother have to make his shirts extrawide, so that the sleeves would not rip out when he practiced with his sword? Surely he must have used a sword at some time in his life—before he became a man of God. His accent and his noble bearing suggested that he came from a good family, and it was no sin to know how to use arms. Saint Michael was a warrior, as well as an angel. What would Brother Guy look like in a suit of armor such as the one worn by the hero of her dreams, the Knight of the Loyal Heart? Celeste could easily imagine Brother Guy wearing the winged heart on his helm.
Thinking of her favorite book reminded Celeste of the troubadour songs. It seemed like a month of Sundays since she had last heard those sweet tunes. She caught herself saying the next prayer while humming “The True Heart’s Lament.” How well the Latin words fit with the simple melody! She hummed another Ave, slightly louder.
Over his shoulder, Brother Guy scowled at her.
Zut alors! Didn’t that man ever smile? Such a pity! He had such a handsome face. Perhaps he was out of practice. Maybe smiling was forbidden in the monastery. No matter. They would be together on the road for many days to come. Celeste knew she could get him to smile at her eventually. People always did. She cocked her head and grinned at him as she continued to hum.
The monk put a long finger to his lips.
Celeste resisted the urge to stick her tongue out at him. What a sobersides!
“I am saying my penance,” she told him in an innocent tone of voice.
Frowning, Brother Guy shook his head. He put his finger to his lips again.
“Bah! You did not say anything about the method of my prayers, Brother Guy.” She deliberately blew the difficult th sound out of her mouth. “Do you not chant your own prayers—that is, when you are permitted to speak?”
Guy’s finely arched eyebrows rose slowly up his wide forehead.
“Just so,” Celeste continued, sensing she had made a point. “You chant and I hum. Now, I have not heard the quality of your voice, so I do not know if your chanting offends the ear of the Divine or not, but—”
He scowled again. Celeste wondered if that was a good or bad sign. She plunged on with her logic.
“But I have been told on excellent authority that I possess a sweet singing voice. I would not say this of myself, you understand, but only because others—”
The monk waved his hand at her, signaling the end of his attention. Gathering that she had been granted permission to continue her unusual mode of prayer, Celeste cleared her throat.
“Ave Maria, gratia plena,” she sang, to the tune of “Lancelot and Guinevere.” As Guy turned away, Celeste thought she spied the hint of a grin hover around his lips and a softer look steal into his blue eyes.
“Sancta Maria. ” She let her voice lift to the heavens, her spirit in tune with the sweet melody.
I shall capture your elusive smile yet, Brother Guy! Just watch me!
Chapter Six
The slanting rays of the setting sun softened the red sandstone walls of the massive castle above the town of Ludlow as Guy led the weary bridal party across the Ludford Bridge. Halfway up the steep slope of Broad Street, he turned Daisy into the yard of one of the town’s more reputable inns, the Feathers. The fresh-painted sign proudly displayed a trio of white plumes, the badge of the Prince of Wales, in honor of the last Plantagenet heir to the throne, the ill-fated King Edward V, who had lived in Ludlow before returning to London, where he had met his mysterious end in the Tower.
Now the Tudors ruled England, after a century of civil unrest. Guy wondered if the news of King Henry’s obsessive infatuation with Anne Boleyn had reached the