The Knight's Vow

‘Very well. My lady commands a kiss, so a kiss my lady shall receive.’ He closed the space between them and she gasped as his hands slid up along the curve of her ribs, slowly traced the outline of her breasts and then travelled over her delicate shoulders. His fingers lingered on the line of her collarbone, so fragile, and then he slid his hands up into her hair and cradled her head.

Beatrice felt her breath stop in her throat and she stared up at him, wide eyed. His shoulders stooped, his body solid and warm against her, and then his head descended and she closed her eyes, waiting. She felt the warmth of his breath and then the cool touch of his lips on her lips. Her hands slid between them, resting on his chest, leaning on him for support. He held her gently while his mouth moved on hers and he persuaded her lips to part for him.

A shock of surprise shivered through her body as his tongue slid into her mouth, moist and hot. He tasted her, savoured, and his jaw moved more quickly. He lifted his head and slanted his mouth the other way over hers, his kiss driving harder and deeper. Their mingled breath came in pants and Beatrice felt sheer excitement flood through her body.

With a whimper her hands moved up his chest and slid around his neck. He groaned, his own hands sliding down to her buttocks and grinding her into the hard bulk of his arousal. They kissed, again and again, and then, without releasing her mouth from the possession of his, he picked her up, swinging her feet off the floor and carrying her to the bed. He laid her down, and himself alongside her. For a long while he did nothing more than continue to kiss her, with hungry urgency.

Beatrice surrendered herself to the most wonderful sensations she had ever felt. The feel of his mouth, the taste of him, the male aroma of him, the heavy muscles of his body, all were new to her. Exciting. Intoxicating. The flood of excitement had welled up so deep within her, and expanded, straining for release in some strange way that she could not fathom, that she made a small noise in her throat, turning to him for guidance.

Hearing this familiar female sound of melting, he smiled to himself and he became bolder. His thigh slid between her knees and his hand found her nipple.

Beatrice opened her eyes and stared at him. She knew that she should not let him touch her in such a way, but it felt so glori ous, and her lashes fluttered down with a strangled moan.

Then suddenly his hand moved away from her breast and she felt a sense of loss. Her eyes snapped open again and she looked up at him, and then gasped as he found the hem of her gown and lifted it up to expose her lower body, naked to his touch.

Her cry was lost inside his mouth. She did not dare to move and held herself tensely still, but as his hand slid between her knees and travelled along the silken warmth of her slender legs she shook her head, broke their kiss, and she cried out, ‘Nay! You must stop!’

‘Why?’ he asked, in a hoarse whisper. ‘No one will know whether you are a virgin or not.’

‘I will know! God will know!’

His thumb stroked the soft curve of her outer thigh and he gazed at her with lazy amusement, his voice husky as he stated, ‘I want you.’

‘Nay, it cannot be!’

‘You could not stop me, if I wanted to take you now.’ He squeezed her thigh with his fingers, demonstrating to her his strength as the hard muscles of his arms flexed and rippled.

‘Please,’ she gasped, ‘please do not shame me.’

Suddenly he released her, withdrew, and she felt cold air as he levered himself up off the bed, the four-poster creaking at his sudden movement. Beatrice sat up, quickly pulling down the hem of her nightshift to cover her nakedness, and leapt to her feet. She rushed at him and made a move to strike his face, but he was too tall and too quick, and checked her, grabbing her wrist in mid-air.

‘You have broken your oath of honour,’ she accused in an agonised whisper.

He blinked, with surprise, ‘I have done naught, except kiss you. At your request. I see nothing dishonourable in that.’

Every line of her body was taut with tension. ‘You should not have touched me…there.’

He laughed then. ‘If I had touched you “there”, instead of just upon your lovely little thighs, you would not now be making protest but crying out your joy as I possessed you.’

Beatrice gasped and flushed scarlet at his explicit words. ‘Go, for I was vastly mistaken to believe that you are a chivalrous knight.’

The light in his eyes flared with anger at her accusation. He stooped and covered her mouth with a kiss so sweet and tender that it left her reeling as he released her wrist and strode to the door. He turned and looked back at her for a moment before issuing his dark warning, ‘Kittens should not play with lions.’

Chapter Two

The convent of St Jude was situated in Northload Street and backed onto the manor house of the Abbot of Glastonbury. The nuns leased ten acres from Abbot John, and from this small parcel of land eked out sufficient food so as to provide enough for their community to live upon, rarely having to resort to buying anything from the market. There were three cows to be milked, a half-dozen sheep for mutton and wool, twenty chickens for eggs and meat, fish ponds and a thriving vegetable garden that yielded carrots, turnips, swedes, onions and herbs. There were apple and pear trees and also two acres of vines. The convent buildings themselves consisted of a hall, known as the refectory, where the nuns ate; a parlour, where Sister Huberta had her desk and went about the business of correspondence and discipline; a large kitchen, which faced on to the vegetable gardens to the rear, adjoined by the buttery. Below stairs there was a cellar, and eight sleeping chambers above stairs. Central to all, of course, was the chapel, ensconced within the body of the convent, so that there was easy access at all hours of the day and night.

A great deal of hard work was required by all to keep this little farm going, and Sister Huberta, Abbess, made sure that she wrung every last ounce out of every last nun, twenty-five in all, excluding the Abbess and the novices.

It was Tuesday, market day, and so large a party as the Ashton cavalcade attracted some attention as they entered the town from the south, along Chilkwell Street, and then turned to clatter up the High Street. Beatrice glanced at the market stalls as they passed by and noted a variety of interesting goods—cheeses, wooden spoons and rowan besoms, silks and ribbons, delicious-smelling pasties, leather boots and copper pots.

All too quickly they left the market behind and wheeled into Northload Street. Just before the end they came to a high brick wall that ran for some distance and abutted the solid posts of a wide, wooden double gate. The gate was barred from the inside and visitors were required to ring a wrought-iron bell set high up in the wall—high enough to discourage small children from tormenting the nuns and the neighbour-hood with silly games of ring-and-run.

Sir Giles leaned over in his saddle and tugged on the rope. They could not hear its jangle, but it was not long before a small trapdoor opened and a wimpled face peeped out.

‘Good morning, Sister,’ greeted Sir Giles politely, ‘Lady Beatrice of Ashton has arrived.’

The door slammed shut. They glanced at one another and Beatrice smiled with a small shrug. After some moments the trapdoor opened again and another nun peered at them with hard eyes. She was older than the first one, and had sharp features that reminded Beatrice of a ferret. She looked directly at Beatrice and spoke to her in a tone that well matched her features.

‘I am the Abbess here, Sister Huberta. What do you mean by bringing all these men to my door? Look how you have blocked the road and created unseemly interest.’

Beatrice felt a small shock of surprise at this abrupt greeting, and she glanced over her shoulder, surveying the men-at-arms who did indeed block the road and had attracted a small crowd of onlookers. Even now Sir Hugh was shouting and pushing his horse through in an attempt to get her coffer to the convent’s door. Beatrice turned to make her apology, but was forestalled.

‘They may go. At once. You may step down from your horse and I will admit you to St Jude’s. If that is still your wish.’ Sister Huberta stared straight at her.

‘Indeed,’ replied Beatrice slowly, her voice naturally soft and now scarcely audible above the stamp and snort of horses, the jingle of harness, the shouts of men down the road, ‘I have a coffer, if you would be so kind as to open the gate.’

‘Are you not aware that this is an enclosed order? I had thought I’d made it quite clear in my letters. We have not opened the gates in thirty years and will surely not do so now. We take you as you are, Mistress Beatrice—’ her name was pronounced almost with a sneer ‘—besides, I cannot allow one nun to own more than any other. You will be provided with what you need, even if it may not be what you want.’

‘But, my Bible—’

‘We have one.’

‘My hairbrush.’

‘You will not need it. Your hair will be shorn.’

The knights and men-at-arms nearby gasped. Beatrice closed her mouth upon her protests to salvage her soap and sewing kit and other possessions. She turned then to Sir Giles and said in a quiet voice, ‘Would you help me down, please?’

‘My lady.’ Sir Giles dismounted, and all the knights dismounted at once, with an audible creak of leather, clank of swords and ringing of spurs that made Beatrice cringe.

As Sir Giles set her down upon the ground Beatrice stroked Willow’s nose in farewell, let go of the reins and took a step towards the gates of St Jude. Then she stopped and turned around again, her eyes flitting from one knight to another.

‘Fare thee well,’ she whispered. ‘My thanks and may God go with you all.’

As one body they came and knelt in a semi-circle before her. She went to each one and kissed him upon the cheek. They remained silent and kept their gazes upon the ground, although every one of them longed to shout their protest and sweep her up on to her horse, to gallop away home.

When she came to Remy St Leger, last in line and furthest away from the gate, it was he, and he alone, who raised his eyes and looked upon her. He reached for her hand and kissed it.

‘Your father said to remind you that if all is not well, to send word.’ His voice was very low, not to be heard by the Abbess.

‘I know. But tell my father that I will not shame him by my lack of courage.’

”Tis not courage you need now, but common sense. Come away from this place.’

‘Let go of my hand!’ Beatrice said through clenched teeth.

‘Come along, young lady, I do not have time to waste idly waiting upon your pleasure.’