The Knight's Vow

They hugged one another for some long moments, and then Lord Thurstan broke away, cleared his throat with a gruff cough, and boosted Beatrice up into the saddle of her mare. She reached down and clasped his fingers.

‘Farewell, Father. May God be with you.’

‘Farewell, my little Beatrice. Remember, if all is not well, you have only to send word.’

Beatrice smiled softly. ‘I will not forget, Father. And give my love to Hal and Osmond when you see them.’

With raised hands they saluted one another and then Beatrice turned her horse about and followed the seven knights, who rode close about her. Their hoofbeats drummed loudly across the wooden drawbridge, followed by the forty men-at-arms, all mounted and well armoured with swords, bows, spears and shields.

The day brightened and the sun peeped through the clouds, lifting Beatrice out of her sombre mood. She could not recall ever hearing birdsong so sweet, as it came now from the larks and starlings, nor seen elder and hawthorn trees blossom so prettily. The hedgerows were full of yellow pepper saxifrage and evening primrose, interspersed with the bright blue of periwinkle and the ramblings of pink-and-white wild dog-roses. The slope of the land appeared magnificent to her eye as hill and dale spread about her in a great vista.

Amidst the constant creak and rattle of leather and armour, the talk of men all around her, there was little peace to enjoy the beauty of this, her last day of freedom. She admonished herself inwardly, trying to uphold the view that she should not consider her commitment to the church to be an end, but a new and wonderful beginning.

And yet…

Cedric Baldslow nudged his destrier alongside Willow and persisted in his attempts to engage Beatrice in conversation. If her smile seemed more aloof than the smile she gave to others, he did not appear to notice. Arrogantly he was confident of his charms, convinced that the lass needed only persuasion to accept his troth. The fact that she had rejected him three times already seemed not to trouble him at all.

At last Sir Giles Radley, seeing her predicament, sent Baldslow away on an errand to the rear of the column, to check on the cart bearing Beatrice’s coffer. She smiled her thanks as Sir Giles rode alongside, and to fill an awkward moment, she asked him, ‘Who is the tall young man with the ash-blond hair?’

‘That is Remy St Leger, my lady, son of an old friend of your father’s who married a countess of Aquitaine. Both his parents have died recently and his elder brother holds the family estate. He has a reputation in France for being one of the finest swordsmen and has done well, very well, in tournaments.’

‘I cannot say I have ever noticed him at Ashton.’

‘He has been at Hepple Hill, your father’s estate in Wessex, training the new men-at-arms who will go with us to Wales. He arrived at Ashton but two days ago. Besides, with the death of your lady mother only two months past—’they both crossed themselves ‘—I am sure your father has taken great pains to keep a hot young blood like Remy St Leger far distant from his pretty, virg…um…virtuous daughter.’

A flush of pink stained Beatrice’s cheeks, but still she laughed, softly. ‘Oh come, Sir Giles, I am an old maid. A “hot young blood” would certainly have no time to waste on me!’

Sir Giles looked at her, with a frown, once again amazed that she did not know her own worth. ‘My lady, neither beauty nor love knows the limit of age.’

For a moment he surveyed her heart-shaped face, dainty upturned nose, dark brown eyes with thick, long lashes, soft pink mouth and buttermilk skin. “Tis the church’s gain and our great loss tomorrow, my lady.’

Beatrice stiffened in the saddle and looked away. She could not bear any more arguments against the path she had chosen, for she feared that far too easily she could be persuaded to return home. Quickly she searched for another topic. ‘Sir Giles, why has my father taken this Remy St Leger into our household?’

‘Because he is a fighter, my lady, a warrior, and we have need of such men, going into Wales.’

‘I see.’ Beatrice surveyed the broad shoulders of the young man they discussed, a frown creasing her brow, ‘He can surely not be very old.’

‘He is four and twenty and was knighted in his first battle at the age of sixteen. From a distance he may not seem very old, but if you look into his eyes, you will see a man full grown and wise with experience. They say he has killed over two hundred men.’

Beatrice shuddered. ‘I think it is very sad, Sir Giles, that young men have become old before their time because of war.’

”Tis the way of the world, my lady.’ Lest her curiosity about the Aquitaine become too avid, Sir Giles steered the conversation elsewhere and made comment upon the weather.

Later that afternoon Woodford and a party of ten men-at-arms were sent on ahead, with a pouch of silver coins, to secure a room for Lady Beatrice at the Red Lion inn. The men would sleep in tents in a nearby field, whilst the seven knights—Radley, Grenville, Montgomery, Woodford, Fitzpons, Baldslow and St Leger—would sleep in the common room and take turns to guard Lady Beatrice’s door throughout the night. Not for one moment would she ever be undefended.

Storm clouds broke towards dusk and it rained heavily. By the time Beatrice reached the Red Lion she was soaked through to the skin. The downpour was so heavy that the yard of the inn was transformed into a quagmire and the men trudged ankle-deep in mud. There was much shouting as Radley, Baldslow and Montgomery steered the men-at-arms into their makeshift field quarters, Grenville and Fitzpons took charge of her coffer and Beatrice looked helplessly about for assistance. Her eyes encountered a fiercely blue male gaze and, instinctively, her own dropped. But Remy St Leger dismounted and was striding through the mud to Willow. He reached up, seized Beatrice about the waist and hauled her down from the saddle, carrying her easily across the yard to the inn. He slipped once, and with a small cry Beatrice clutched at his shoulders, feeling beneath her fingers the bulk of his muscular frame. His eyes flashed at her, with a mocking smile. He jiggled her weight closer against his chest and held her more tightly as they continued their precarious journey.

Within the flagstoned doorway of the inn he set her down upon her feet and Beatrice had to tilt her head back to look up at him, for he was very tall.

‘Thank you,’ she murmured and, remembering her conversation with Sir Giles, looked into his eyes. And backed away. His features were indeed handsome and pleasing, but Remy St Leger was not the sort of man that a maiden would trifle with.

Despite several attempts by the landlord to ingratiate himself with Lady Beatrice of Ashton, he saw nothing more than the top of her head, as she was swept upstairs to the finest chamber in the house, surrounded by five knights who seemed gigantic and armed to the teeth.

Beatrice breathed a sigh of relief as she was shown into her chamber for the night. It was small, compared to her own room at home, but more than adequate for one night. There was a four-poster bed hung with dark blue damask, a roaring fire, two chairs placed before the hearth, a table set with plates of food and a flagon of wine. The windows were well shuttered and Beatrice flung off her sodden cloak, draping it over the back of a chair. A tap at the door made her pause as she reached to pull off her boots.

‘Come in.’

Sir Giles entered, bearing a large pitcher of steaming water, followed closely by Sir Hugh carrying a bowl. They placed both on the hearth before the fire, checked the supply of logs, food and wine, and then turned to Beatrice with a deep bow.

‘Is there anything else my lady requires?’ asked Sir Giles.

‘Nay, thank you. I have everything I need.’ Rubbing her aching backside, with a rueful grin, she added, ‘I will sleep like a babe this night.’

‘You will not be disturbed, my lady.’

They left her then and Beatrice knew there was no need to bar the door, for there would be a guard all night long. Returning to the hearth, she stripped off her clothes and boots and stood naked to wash. The water was deliciously hot, but the room wasn’t and Beatrice finished quickly, reaching to wrap a blanket around her while she fumbled in her saddlebag and drew out her nightshift. Long-sleeved and tied about the neck with a silk ribbon, she warmed the garment before the fire flames, then slid it quickly on. Sitting in a chair, feet curled beneath her, Beatrice took her time unbraiding her hair and smoothing it out with her fingers.

Then she ate some of the hearty fare laid out for her—chicken and ham pie, roasted capon, fresh white bread and crumbly Leicester cheese, plum cake and spiced apples—but, inevitably, there came a time when she could no longer busy herself. She sat idly, staring at the fire, alone with her thoughts. Very alone. The reality of tomorrow suddenly came upon her and she was swamped with fear and doubt.

Her father’s words echoed again and again within the confines of her mind—’…you will never know the joy of being a wife and a mother.’ With a sigh Beatrice rose from the chair and padded barefoot across the wooden floor to the bed, pulling back the covers.

For a moment she surveyed the broad expanse of mattress, set with two pillows. A bed made to accommodate two people. Husband and wife. Lovers. Tears pricked her eyes. She climbed in and lay down, drawing up her knees into the warmth of her own body and away from the cold linen. After a while she turned on to her back, staring up at the ruched canopy.

Why? she wondered. Twenty-nine years old and she could find no man worthy enough to claim her love, loyalty and respect. Always she found fault with the men who pursued her hand, for there had been no shortage of offers. Of course, now she was too old. Except for obnoxious Baldslow the offers had dwindled away to nothing.

When she had been sixteen she had been betrothed to a young man that Beatrice had found acceptable in every way, but William de Warenne, a respected knight, handsome and brave, had been killed. The pain of his death still ached in her breast and she wondered if she had truly ever recovered from his loss. Her mother had warned her against holding on to a love that was long gone, that its grip would become so fierce that she would never be able to love again.

Many years had passed since that anguished time, but time had not erased the pain completely. It was dull, but not gone. Mayhap she should reconsider Baldslow. He was old, but experience and wisdom were not to be scorned. Beatrice cringed, however, at the thought of his rough, scarred hands touching her, and here she came to the crux of the matter. She could not give her body to a man she did not love. The mere thought made goosebumps rise upon her flesh.

She had raged furiously over William’s death and laid the blame at only one door—God’s. After a time she had been ashamed and guilt-ridden, taking as penance a pious devotion to God and the church that her parents had questioned and misliked, but had been unable to alter.

Beatrice turned over onto her side, a dozen thoughts jostling for favour. With a low, frustrated moan she flung back the covers and sat up. If only she had thought to pack her Bible close to hand, instead of in her coffer, then she would be able to read, until her mind was soothed and she fell asleep.

She left the bed and poured a goblet of wine, taking it and a wedge of plum cake to sit before the fire. She wondered what her father would be doing now; no doubt dining, as she was, and packing his gear for the venture to Wales. And tomorrow, tomorrow she would be at the convent.

The fire warmed her and Beatrice glanced down at her feet, peeping out beneath the long hem of her nightshift. William had said she had pretty feet, on that one occasion by the river when he had found her paddling in the cool water, and had almost kissed her. Almost. Within a few days he had ridden off to war, and within a few weeks more he was dead.

Beatrice wondered, as she munched on the sweet crumbly cake, what it would be like to be kissed by a man. Her mother had always complained that her father’s beard tickled and Beatrice thought she would prefer a face cleanshaven. Into her thoughts intruded the image of a handsome male face, with bright blue eyes and dark blond hair long at the neck. Remy St Leger. She could not recall how his mouth had been, but she was certain he had no beard.

Eventually Beatrice went back to bed and, at last, fell asleep. But it was not for long. She woke again, and the night was dark and still. The logs had burned down to ruby embers. She lay for a long while, listening to the sigh of the wind rustling in the treetops, the creak of roof beams, an owl hooting. She snuggled down deeper into the warmth of the bed, meagre as it was, and then she thought it might be wise to pile on a few more logs to keep the fire going until morning.

She padded silently across the floor, lit a candle and reached for a log, laying it carefully in the grate, and then another. She found a poker and stirred up the embers, and then jumped back with an exclamation as the topmost log rolled and scattered tiny burning coals upon the hearth. One hit her foot and she yelped with pain.

At once the door flung open. A knight charged into the room, his sword half-drawn, looking about him with eyes narrowed in question.

‘Be at ease, sir,’ Beatrice called, and then gasped as she turned and faced Remy St Leger, her voice sinking to an uncertain whisper. ‘There is no one here who does me harm, except my own foolish self.’

His glance took in the fallen log and the poker in her hand, but not before he noticed how the firelight silhouetted her slender body through the fine white linen of her nightshift. He noticed, too, that her hair fell unbound in a ripple of glorious honey to her hips. With a hiss his sword was rammed home in its scabbard and he strode across the room, knelt to retrieve the log smouldering on the hearth and to place it back in the grate. Looking up at her, he held out his hand until she relinquished the poker.