The Knight's Vow

Although the food was well cooked and tasty there was little of it, and the Abbess would not spend her coin on purchasing flour. There was no bread, no pies, no tarts or cakes. Breakfast consisted of stewed fruit or a thin, coarse gruel made from oats grown on the holding; the midday meal was vegetable soup; supper was a meat or fish stew, sometimes followed by cheese or fruit. The gnawing ache of hunger clawed constantly at her belly and even her dreams were rampant with images of food. She longed to taste just a crust of bread, let alone the sweet curd tarts, game pies and spiced apple cake that Cook at Ashton was so good at making.

Waking from her nap, Beatrice hurried down the rickety ladder from the hayloft, the bell for the noon Angelus ringing like an alarm. She knew that she must hurry and, brushing the stalks of dusty hay from her skirts, Beatrice ran along the path that threaded between the vegetables and herbs. She had been sent to collect eggs and realised, with a small gasp of fear, that she had failed to do so.

When she reached the kitchen door, hoping to slip in and make her way through the convent to the chapel, she was stopped by the large bulk of Sister Una, assigned to the kitchen as cook. She paused as she wielded a massive knife through a pile of turnips and swedes.

‘Sister Huberta said to tell you not to go to the chapel, but to her parlour. At once.’

Biting her lips, Beatrice nodded and smiled her thanks for the message. The first time she had been summoned to Sister Huberta’s study, and severely reprimanded for some misdemeanour or another, Beatrice had shook with terror. But now, it was a regular occurrence and she visited the Abbess on a daily basis.

Her footsteps tapped on the flagstones of the passage and from the chapel she could hear the uneven tones of discordant singing. Beatrice knocked on the door.

‘Enter.’

She opened the door and came in to find Sister Huberta at her usual place behind her desk. The Abbess sat back in her chair, fingers steepled before her, and smiled unpleasantly.

‘Ah. Beatrice. How nice to see you. Again.’

‘Abbess.’ Beatrice dipped a small curtsy.

‘Come closer, girl. I do not wish to shout at you across the room.’

Beatrice took three paces forward.

‘I would ask you to do me a favour.’

‘Of course.’

‘Take off your wimple.’

Beatrice gasped, her hand flying defensively to the linen wrapped around her head and neck. ‘I…I must…protest, Sister.’

‘Indeed, you must. But I am afraid that I must insist. You see, dear Beatrice, it has come to my attention that once again you have breached our covenants. This time, ‘tis most serious. Now, remove your wimple, or I will fetch Sister Una and have her do it for you.’

Beatrice sighed, admitting defeat and too tired, hungry and dispirited to raise further protest. Slowly her small, pale hands unwound the linen wimple and her glorious mane of honey-brown hair spilled about her shoulders, slithering down like silk to curl about her hips.

‘I—I am not, by law, required to cut it, Sister Huberta, until my second year. When I am certain of my vocation.’

‘I see. And you have doubts about your, um, vocation?’

‘Nay, Sister. I wish to praise and honour our Lord and devote my life to Him in prayer.’

‘But?’

‘Well…’ brightening suddenly at this invitation to unburden herself and disguising her surprise at Sister Huberta’s willingness to listen, Beatrice hurried on ‘…life is harsh here, for everyone. I am sure that if our bodies were not troubling us so much from lack of sleep and constant hunger, we would be able to devote ourselves more entirely to God.’

‘Indeed!’ Sister Huberta now rose from her chair, and scraped it back. ‘Thank you for that advice, Beatrice. Now, I have some for you.’ She opened the door of her study. ‘Go home.’

‘Sister?’

‘I am sending you away. Back to your father.’

‘But—’

‘I have written to him once already, but received no reply. Unfortunately, St Jude cannot afford the burden of a lazy, useless chit!’ She rang a bell and Sister Emily, the gatekeeper, came. ‘Mistress Beatrice will be leaving us. Kindly escort her to the novice dormitory. She will remove these garments and dress in her own. Then take her to the gate and show her out.’ Sister Huberta gained immense satisfaction from every word she spoke.

‘But—’ Beatrice, struggling to comprehend the situation, pointed out ‘—I have no horse, no escort, no money! How can you—?’

‘Silence!’ Sister Huberta held up her hand. ‘Collect your bundle from the dormitory. I have given you two pennies to help you on your way.’

Utterly bewildered, Beatrice followed Sister Emily to the novices’ dormitory, where upon her cot sat a bundle. It was her cloak, her own dark blue fustian, that had been used to tie up her shoes and clothes.

‘I have put in some cheese and two apples,’ whispered Sister Emily. ‘Come now, do not look so distraught. You are lucky indeed to be escaping.’ Glancing over her shoulder, she added in a conspiratorial whisper, ‘Do not change your clothes, for your habit will lend you some protection on the outside.’ With nimble hands she fastened Beatrice’s wimple on, tucking away the glorious hair and assuring her, ‘There are few who would dare to accost a nun.’

Beatrice was numb with shock. She followed Sister Emily across the yard, and clutched at her bundle as if to a lifeline while the large key attached to a leather thong at Sister Emily’s waist clanked and scraped in the lock. The nun stepped to one side, and held the door open. Reluctantly, she stooped through the doorway, as she had only three weeks before.

‘Fare thee well, sweet Beatrice. God will go with you.’

Beatrice could do no more than smile weakly, and then she was standing alone in the dusty road, she, who had never stood alone and unprotected in her life.

Chapter Three

For a long while Beatrice simply stood there, unaware of the passers-by who glanced at her. Then a hand touched her sleeve and she looked down into the plump, tanned face of an old woman, a basket of eggs over her arm.

‘Are you all right, my dear?’ she asked, in the broad country accent of a farmer’s wife.

Beatrice blinked, and then smiled, her smile growing wide as it reached her eyes and suddenly she laughed ‘Aye, I am, mistress.’

‘Chucked you out, has she?’

‘What?’

The old woman laughed. ‘No need to be shamed.’ Jerking her head at the convent, she added, ‘She don’t like the pretty ones. Sent you on your way?’

‘Aye. It is so.’

‘Well, never you mind, dearie. Come along, now, I’ll walk with you to market. Have you far to reach your home?’

‘Indeed. I am from Castle Ashton.’

The old woman frowned, ‘I’ve not heard of it. Must be a long ways off.’

Beatrice fell into step, and half-listened in a daze as the woman chatted in a friendly manner. They came to the market and Beatrice felt quite overwhelmed by the noise and bustle. She parted from the farmer’s wife and wandered amongst the stalls, pausing to gaze upon the wares displayed as though she had never seen before such simple things as leather boots, wooden spoons, bolts of cloth in lovely colours of mulberry and emerald and saffron. The most fascinating was the pieman’s stall and Beatrice stood gazing hungrily upon the golden pastry, filled with meat and vegetables, whose savoury aroma hung deliciously on the air. Succumbing to temptation, Beatrice felt for the two coins the Abbess had thrust into her kirtle pocket, and offered one to the pie seller.

‘What will it be, mistress? Cornish, ham and chicken, or apple?

Beatrice pointed to a Cornish pasty, and accepted it into her hand as though it were Crusade treasure, pocketing her change and scarce knowing whether she had enough money left to find her way home. She had never had to deal with money before and had little knowledge of its value.

Taking her pie and her bundle, she went and sat down upon the steps of the stone cross that marked the place for trade. She savoured every last mouthful, and then sat back and turned her face up to the sun. Before she realised it she was praying, and felt the sweet presence of her God return to her. Remy St Leger had been right. She did not belong in the convent.